Dragon Seeker

Gasping for breath, the little dragon landed heavily on the grassy slope and collapsed weakly, his gleaming red scales smeared with earth and leaves. Relief swept through him as he realized just how lucky he’d been to spot the hill, for it had loomed suddenly in the distance like a beacon of hope amid the swirling morning mist.

The mist, however, was thinning fast and, looking round anxiously, he sought a place to hide; a cave or some sort of shelter that would save him from the swords and lances of the soldiers. It was, he knew, a forlorn hope as, wherever he’d
hidden
on his long flight from the South, they’d somehow always managed to find him.

Drawing on the last of his strength, he crawled into a
shallow
space between two outcrops of rock. It offered little protection against the death that he knew was near and, with a sigh, he wished now that he’d paid a bit more attention to his mother’s words.
Stay close to home
, she’d always warned.
Don’t stray far
. But, of course, he hadn’t listened. Young and headstrong, he hadn’t believed her tales of men in shining armour who killed dragons for sport. What man, after all, could match the magic strength and power of a dragon?

He hadn’t, however, reckoned on the ruthless cleverness of the soldiers who had hounded him over the countryside,
allowing
him no time to rest by day or by night. And now the end had come. He was exhausted and knew that he could go no
further
. He was going to die in this strange place, far from home
and no one would ever know where or how he had perished.

There was a sudden shout and the chilling blast of a hunting horn. The dragon’s heart sank. The soldiers had spotted him. This truly was the end. He folded his wings over his ears to shut out its dreadful call. Again it rang out; a strange inhuman sound that froze the blood in his veins.

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he looked round hopelessly for help. Nearby, a rugged grey castle, set on top of a black mass of rock, loomed against the morning sky and, from the cluster of houses crowding its base, he could see men and women running over the fields towards him. Roughly clad, they were nothing like the fine soldiers who had chased him over moor and hill; flags waving, armour gleaming, swords shining. Moving in from the left, he could see
them
already, marching in ordered columns with their leader riding in front, his black flag embossed with a golden sword.

The soldiers fanned out round the base of the hill,
waving
their swords threateningly at the townspeople who now thronged the lower slopes in ever increasing numbers. Minutes passed and it was only when some sort of order had been established that the knight cantered forward, the black plume on his helmet fluttering in the breeze. All eyes were focused on him when, with a wide gesture, he set his right hand against the golden hilt of his sword. A dreadful silence fell as he slowly drew it from its scabbard and held it aloft.

Everyone watching knew immediately that it was no
ordinary
sword. The soldiers who had, in the past, witnessed the deaths of many dragons, were silent but a troubled, uneasy growl rose from the ranks of the townspeople who stiffened with fear at the blinding blaze of magic that radiated from its blade.

“Come, dragon,” the knight shouted, urging his horse
forward
. 
“Come, dragon, so that my sword may drink your blood. Have you not heard of Dragonslayer? It has come for
you
!”

The dragon had, indeed, heard of Dragonslayer. He
trembled
. This, then, was the terrible sword that all dragons feared. No wonder the soldiers had always been able to find him. The sword would have led them to him, wherever he had hidden. Dragonslayer! The magic sword whose blade could pierce the scales of dragons. This then was Sir Pendar, the Black Knight, the famous Dragon Seeker!

Sir Pendar, for his part, looked at the dragon almost
petulantly
. It really was too bad, he thought irritably. He’d so wanted his fiftieth dragon to be a great beast; a huge, fire-breathing monster that he could boast of in the halls of kings and of princes. And what did he get? This miserable, half-grown specimen that probably couldn’t breathe a candle’s worth of fire! He pressed his lips together in annoyance. Killing it was really hardly worth his while. Nevertheless, he thought, as he heaved a sigh, a dragon was, after all, a dragon. Urging his horse forward, he straightened in the saddle, brandished his sword and prepared to charge.

Helpless against the magic that drew him inexorably towards the blazing sword, the dragon rose to his feet, his claws
digging
into the earth as he prepared to meet the enemy; for even young dragons knew that death had to be faced bravely. Shaking with fear, he gathered the remains of his courage and moved forward awkwardly across the rough ground to meet the Black Knight and Dragonslayer, his terrible sword.

Sir Pendar’s eyes glistened as he urged his horse to the gallop.

With all eyes on the charging knight, it’s hardly surprising that none of those watching witnessed the arrival of yet more actors in the unfolding drama. Perched on a rocky bluff above the dragon, they appeared out of nowhere. Gorgeously dressed
in velvets and furs, they were magicians of great power who, more than a little taken aback at what was happening on their own doorstep, had decided to take a hand in the matter.

It wasn’t often that they chose to interfere in the world of men but dragons are magic creatures and they guessed that it must have been this that had drawn the creature to them. They’d tut-tutted a bit at first, for they were very old, but given that the whole affair had taken them by surprise, were
determined
to do their best. The dragon had come to them for help and this must certainly be given. And, as they, too, had heard of Dragonslayer, they very quickly decided that here was an ideal opportunity to remove the sword, once and for all, from the clutches of the world of men.

So it was that even as the horseman rode at full speed towards the dragon, one of the magicians stepped forward and, lifting his arm, sent a streak of light flashing from his fingers. The result of the hex was only obvious when the horse careered headlong into the invisible barrier that had risen between it and the dragon and, not unsurprisingly, crashed to the ground. Its rider, too, fell heavily and before the startled soldiers could move to help their master, the horse, hooves flailing wildly, rolled over him. Thus, Sir Pendar, with a cry of anguish, met his end.

No one was more surprised by this turn of events than the dragon himself who stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe that he had been spared. Vaguely, he wondered why the soldiers and the townspeople were backing off and making no move to assist the knight or gather the reins of the sweating, shivering horse, which had, by this time, struggled unsteadily to its feet. It was only when he turned his head and saw the wonderfully dressed individuals making their way towards him that he understood. Magicians! Like the townspeople, he recognized them for what they were and immediately sank to his knees.
They had saved him.

The eldest of the magicians stepped forward and, lifting both of his hands for silence, addressed the fearful crowd. “Hear me, people of Eidyn,” he said in a stern voice that rang over the
hillside
, “and do as I command! Bury the knight, Sir Pendar. Bury him deep in the rock of your castle yonder and place his sword and his horn by his side. I, Lord Alarid, command you so to do!”

He surveyed them grimly as they muttered and murmured among themselves. At any other time, he might have worried that the sword would be fought over but, given the powerful hex in his words, knew that there would be no squabbling. They would follow his instructions to the letter.

Before the soldiers could move towards their stricken master, however, the magician turned from them towards the hill. Again, a flash of light flew from his fingers and, to gasps of amazement, the bluff of rock split apart in a sharp crack of sound. This was followed by a petrified silence as the huge, carved door that had been revealed, swung slowly and majestically open. More, however, was to come for, from the doorway, small faery folk appeared. Full of excitement, they ran to the dragon and welcomed him warmly.

The kneeling dragon struggled confusedly to his feet as they clustered round. After the perils of his journey, he was quite overcome. His wonderful eyes lost their look of fearful dread and started to glow as he saw the kindness in the faces of the little people who were urging him to come with them into the safety of the hill.

He drew a quivering breath as, heart swelling with relief, he realized that a new life lay before him. With no hesitation
whatsoever
, he turned his back on the outside world and, escorted by the magicians and the faery folk, stepped forward through the massive doorway, into the hill.

I doubt if you will find Ashgar on any map of Central Europe, for it is a tiny, mountainous country that nestles, almost
unnoticed
, between its more important neighbours. It has few towns and although cars are not unknown, most people still use horse-drawn carriages or ride on horseback, the roads in many places being little more than rutted tracks. Deer, wild boar and wolves roam the countryside but apart from
hunters
, few people venture deep into its forests as old tales speak of dwarves, dragons and other strange creatures that lurk in dark places among the trees.

Neither did the country folk, themselves, encourage
visitors
. A surly, silent lot, they were happy enough to sell their farm produce at marketstalls in towns and villages, but they kept their affairs to themselves and made no mention of the growing number of wolves that roamed the countryside, descending on their farms at night to steal their chickens; nor did they tell of the of the evil black crows that watched the highways and byways for curious strangers. Neither did they speak of the mountains of the north where dragons lived, nor of the lands to the east where powerful magicians dwelt in dark castles.

Magicians such as the great Lord Jezail, whose turreted citadel dominated the narrow streets and quaint, red-roofed houses of Stara Zargana; a little country town that was old even in ancient times. Separated from the houses by a curved, rocky bridge that reared high over a fast-flowing mountain
stream, no one visited it willingly. Rumours of strange
happenings
within its walls had, over the years, made its citizens wary. Wary, I might add, but not surprised for, although no one talked of it openly, it had long been known that the citadel was a magic building. Indeed, it was whispered that in days of old, when Lord Jezail’s father ruled the eastern province, it gleamed in shades of white and cream; slim, slender and elegantly
beautiful
against its majestic background of forests and mountain peaks. As evil had crept into Lord Jezail’s heart, however, so the colour of the citadel had gradually changed. Now it rose, black and threatening over the town and few people looked at it without a shudder of fear.

High in the topmost tower of this, his great citadel, Lord Jezail stood silently by a slit window that gave a clear view over the distant, tree-clad slopes of the mountains that lay to the east of the town. His face was unusually worried. Where
was
the man?
Why
hadn’t he come? Idly, he fingered the chain of the heavy, gold medallion that hung round his neck. Inscribed with ancient runes, he had inherited it from his father and its magic was strong. His talisman, too, was powerful and he smiled in satisfaction as the sunlight glinted on the silver band that clasped his wrist.

Idly, he thought of his forthcoming journey and excitement glistened in his dark eyes for, if what he had been told was true, then he might soon be able to add the fabulous
Book of Spells
to his collection. His spirits lifted at the thought for with such a book in his library he would command the respect of every magician in the world!

Such visions of future fame and glory, however, soon faded as, once more, he lifted his eyes to scan the mountain passes. Tapping his fingers impatiently on the smooth, stone
window-sill
, he could barely conceal his impatience. Where was the
man? What was keeping him? Winter had already given way to spring and the passes through the mountains had long been open to the peoples of the east, yet his crows had
still
brought no news of him.

A slight draught told him that a door had opened and he turned to see Count Vassili enter the room. His aide,
dark-haired
and handsome, adjusted the neck of his ruffled shirt and straightened his black velvet robes before bowing low before Lord Jezail. His mind, however, was working swiftly as he’d been quick to spot the frown on his master’s face. “You’re tired, Milord,” he murmured. “Come and sit down. I’ll have tea sent to you at once.”

“
Tea
!” Lord Jezail muttered. “It’s not
tea
that I need to make me feel better!” But he left the window without argument and sank gratefully into the pile of cushions that lined his ornate, gilt chair.

Eyeing his master thoughtfully, the count rang a bell,
knowing
that the servants would arrive within minutes, bringing tea, sandwiches and the little sesame seed cakes that his master so adored.

“The mountain passes have been open for weeks now,” Lord Jezail grumbled. “He should have been here long ago!”

The count lifted his eyebrows as he poured water into a tall glass. So
that
was what was bothering him. “You’re expecting the Khan of Barazan?” he queried. “You didn’t tell me!”

“He said he would come after the snows had melted in the mountains!” Lord Jezail said grumpily as the count reached for a pillbox. “He’s bringing me more medicine,” he continued, aware of the surprise in his aide’s voice.

“But we are well stocked with your dragon pills, Milord,” Vassili frowned, shaking one from its box as he spoke. “We’ve enough to last you well into the autumn,” he added, offering
it to his master with the glass of water. The count’s face was bland but inwardly he felt a touch of concern. During the few years he’d been with his master, he’d seen him in many moods but lately he’d noticed a strange lethargy that puzzled him for, although an elderly man, he’d always been quite active. Vaguely he wondered if it was anything to do with the silver talisman that his master wore round his wrist. It was a talisman that didn’t really belong to him and, as he well knew, such magic tokens had their own way of showing their displeasure. Could it be the
talisman
that was making the old man sick?

“Dragons’ blood’s all very well,” Lord Jezail snorted,
swallowing
the pill distastefully, “but quite honestly these pills aren’t really doing me much good. The Khan thinks I’ve become too used to them and the last time he was here, he promised to bring me potions made from dragons’ bile.” He frowned
irritably
as he gave the glass back to the count. “I only hope he arrives with it before we leave for Scotland,” he muttered.

Vassili’s lips set in a straight line. He was a lot less
enthusiastic
than his master about the proposed visit to Scotland and had already made his feelings plain. As for
dragons’ bile!
He cringed at the thought. That was
all
he needed! Just
wait
until he saw the Khan of Barazan. He’d have more than a few words to say to him on the subject! Nevertheless, he frowned as he glimpsed the flash of silver on his master’s wrist and wished with all his heart that he’d never brought the talisman back to Ashgar.

It had all started many years ago, when Lord Jezail had given the silver clasp as a gift to his daughter, Merial. When she’d grown up and married a human, however, he’d cast her off entirely and, as far as the count knew, had neither seen nor spoken to her since. It wasn’t, therefore, surprising that on her death, Lady
Merial hadn’t returned the talisman to her father, nor given it to the witches who had cared for her when she’d arrived friendless in Scotland; she’d left it instead to a human child, her niece by
marriage
, Clara MacLean.

Knowing that many people craved its power, her father included, Lady Merial had hidden the talisman, leaving Clara a riddle as a clue to its hiding place. Lord Jezail, furious and determined to get the talisman back, had then sent Count Vassili to Scotland to find it. At the thought, the count’s lips twisted in a wry smile for, despite the problems he’d faced, he’d enjoyed his stay in Scotland. Convinced that the talisman had been hidden somewhere in Netherfield, Clara’s school, he’d taken a post there as a German master and during the course of the term had grown to like both Clara and her brother, Neil. His loyalty, however, had always been to his master and, although he’d have much preferred Clara to keep the talisman, he knew where his duty lay and had taken it back with him to Ashgar.

Even then, he mused sourly, things hadn’t turned out quite as he’d thought. Envisaging some sort of praise for a job well done, his lips tightened as he remembered how, when he’d returned to the citadel, Lord Jezail had casually slipped the talisman on his wrist with barely a word of thanks. No praise or recognition of all the dangers he’d been through! Nothing!

Knowing Lord Jezail as he did, the count almost shrugged. It was, after all, a fairly typical reaction and, he supposed, to be expected; for by the time he’d returned to Ashgar, his master had heard that the fabled
Book of Spells
had been found and had been so full of excitement that he couldn’t think of anything else! Some said it was the witches who had started the rumour but the fact remained that word had quickly spread throughout the world of magic that the MacArthurs, the faery
folk who lived in the depths of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, had somehow managed to lay their hands on it.

The news was enough to send Jezail into raptures. The
Book of Spells
had been found; and, quite naturally,
he
wanted it! Indeed, the thought had occupied his mind ever since!

Of course, Vassili thought, looking back on the matter, he should never have said anything about Clara; but the minute his master had mentioned the
Book of Spells
, he knew that it had been Clara who had found it. The spell she’d used to
summon
daemons (in the middle of the school concert, for
goodness
sake) had been uttered in the words of ancient magic. And she had obviously known the spell by heart, for she’d said it confidently, without hesitation. He wished now that he’d kept his mouth shut; for it was
that
particular piece of information that had given Lord Jezail his
big idea
. He knew perfectly well that there was little chance of his being able to steal the
Book of Spells
from the MacArthurs — there was, after all, their dragon to contend with — but if this child had memorized them…

“I know what you’re thinking,” Lord Jezail growled suddenly from the depths of his chair, “but kidnapping this girl is the only way I can get my hands on the spells. She knows them all off by heart. You told me so, yourself.”

The count looked at him warily. Did his feelings show as much as that? If Lord Jezail could read his thoughts with such accuracy, he’d certainly have to be a lot more careful. It wouldn’t do for him to discover the
real
reason for his presence in the citadel.

Lord Jezail smiled sourly at the count’s expression of dismay. “After all,” he pointed out, “it won’t take her all that long to write the spells down, will it? She wouldn’t be my prisoner for long and …”

A gentle tap on the door announced the arrival of a servant
who entered with a tray piled high with cakes and sandwiches. Vassili watched as he set the table and then made haste to serve his master.

Forgetting the Book of Spells, Lord Jezail drew his chair closer to the table. “It’s ridiculous, really, when you think of it,” he groused, his eyes falling on the little box of dragon pills. “Here am I, one of the greatest Dragon Seekers of all time, and
look
at me! Reduced to this! Waiting — waiting, like a servant, for the Khan to arrive! If he doesn’t come, I’ve a good mind to go out and kill a dragon myself!”

“Well, it would be exciting to say the least, Milord, but I can’t say I recommend it,” the count’s eyes twinkled as he lifted a plate of sandwiches from the table. “You were a lot younger in those days, for a start,” he pointed out, “
and
a lot fitter. But your deeds, you know, aren’t forgotten. Everyone remembers the great beasts that you slew.”

“Hmmph!” Lord Jezail sounded disgruntled but Vassili’s rare words of praise pleased him, nevertheless. He straightened in his chair, smiling slightly as he reached for a sandwich. “Those were the days, Vassili!” he said dreamily. “Stalking dragons, trailing them through the forests and over the mountains,
losing
them sometimes when they flew off to that dratted valley …”

The count sighed. He knew what was coming next. He’d heard it all
so
many times before. Yet, if all the old tales his father had told him were true, then Lord Jezail had, indeed, been a great Dragon Seeker in days of old. So much so that the remaining dragons in the area had eventually taken refuge in a deep, desolate valley, which they had guarded fiercely ever since.

“It’s monstrous!” his master muttered. “That valley’s
full
of dragons and yet
I
have to rely on the Khan for my pills!” He leant forward to choose another sandwich. “
And
pay a fortune
for them!” he added, sourly.

Vassili shrugged. “Well, there’s not a lot we can do about it, Milord,” he said, a trifle ruefully as he poured his master’s tea,” unless, of course,” he added teasingly,” you’re really serious about visiting the Valley of the Dragons!”

Jezail looked suddenly grim. “If I weren’t so weak, I’d go tomorrow!” he snapped.

Vassili looked at him sharply, startled at the sudden strength of his tone.

“When I said that the Khan charged a fortune for his dragon pills, I meant it,” his master said bitterly. “Every time he comes, he charges me double. Says they’ve become scarce! And I do
need
the pills, Vassili! My will might be strong but my body, these days, is old and weak. The dragon pills give me strength! And,” his voice became fretful, “what will happen when his supplies run out? Tell me that, Vassili? If you rule out the Valley of the Dragons, then tell me: where is he going to find more dragons in this day and age?”

The count looked at his master thoughtfully; for Lord Jezail certainly had a point. “I don’t know,” he was forced to admit. “Times have changed, haven’t they? I mean …”

“They used to be ten a penny in the old days,” Lord Jezail said tiredly. “Well, maybe not quite,” he was forced to admit, “but there were a lot of them around.”