The Saint of Dragons (19 page)

Simon was gone.

In the streets of Beijing, the Black Dragon and Simon St. George came out from the underground labyrinth on a bustling corner near old pagodas. The Black Dragon seemed, to all those who saw him, as nothing more than an elderly Chinese man wrapped in scarves, an old Oriental coat and robe, and wearing a traditional hat. His yellow canary twittered on his shoulder.

“We must move quickly,” said the Black Dragon. “I need rest. We will need a bicycle cab to get us to my ship.”

Simon could hardly believe what he was doing, but he got them a cab, and the cyclist pulled them away into the ocean of people. The crowd closed in around them, forward and behind, and Simon could no longer tell where he was. There was no going back. No time to explain things to Aldric.

Simon was leaving his father behind.

He had no idea if what he was doing was right.

“Be calmed,” said the wounded Dragon, rubbing the slash in his stomach from the arrow’s point. “It will all turn out for the best.”

His soothing voice was all Simon had to cling to.

He was on his own.

T
HE
B
LACK
D
RAGON CONTROLLED
the pain he must have been feeling from his wounds, hardly making a sound as he and Simon finally made their way to a port. Simon watched the Black Dragon closely. But he saw nothing to fear in its eyes.

The creature was delighted at seeing his ship again. Simon wondered how long it had been since the creature had been out of his cave.

The large junk bobbed before them in the water with a humble dignity. It was very old, its sides worn, with a look of obvious abandonment.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said the old Dragon, leaning on Simon’s arm to help him walk. “We must get aboard at once.”

Up close, the junk was no prettier than it was from a distance. Dust. Rust. Rot. The one saving grace of the dilapidated ship was a faded, painted Dragon on the sides of the cabin.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Simon. “I can’t leave
my father long. He’ll never forgive me. He’s probably worrying himself into a coma.”

“He is well,” said the Dragon, closing his eyes. “I see him now in my chambers. He is afraid for you; he fears he has failed you. But if we do our work quickly, we will find him in good health when we return.”

“I wish,” the Dragon added, collapsing onto an old chair on deck, “that I myself should be in such good health.” He rubbed his side, and Simon saw what looked to be liquid fire dripping from the wound Aldric had made. Thin strands of burning water slipped through the Black Dragon’s fingers and fell to the deck with a hiss.

“Fireblood,” he explained weakly. “Your father is quite skilled. Serpentfire-tipped arrows are a fearsome weapon. Fetch some water, there.”

Simon turned, finding a bucket full of rainwater. He tossed the water onto the small flames the blood had made on the deck.

“Forgive me,” said the old creature. “I should be able to put out my own fireblood, but I am saving my energies. I am not well.”

Simon came closer, to see the wound.

“It looks bad.” The boy winced. “Can you survive it?”

“I don’t know for how long. I hope we can make our journey before my strength leaves me.”

A sobering thought lifted itself in Simon’s head, of being alone on the sea without his father
or
the Dragonman. What happened to a Dragon when it was dying, anyway? What if its magic burst out of it, and it wasn’t safe to be near it? He remembered the death of the White Dragon.

The Black Dragon coughed. “The wound is worse than I thought. The arrow pierced my solar magensis.”

“What’s that?”

“It is not my heart, but the heart of my magic. It is the organ which generates magic, feeding off the sun. Dark Dragons feed off the moon. It means, Simon, that my time is very short, and that my magic will be more erratical than ever. It could be dangerous to be near me.”

“I’ll stay,” said Simon. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, tell me.”

“My own life is of sad little importance,” said the Black Dragon, “but if we do not get to the Light Dragons and warn them of the danger ahead, the world will be ripped apart by the Dark Draconians’ power.”

Simon felt desperate. “I left my father behind for you. Don’t let it be for nothing. Tell me how to help you. Would this…” He rummaged in his satchel for the red elixir bottle, the magician’s salve. “Would this do any good?”

The Dragon tilted his head, startled.

“It may. It may,” he said.

Simon poured the viscous fluid onto the wound, which glowed like embers as it repaired itself.

The Dragon seemed astonished at Simon’s generosity. “That will seal and hold the fireblood in. My strength will return to me.”

Simon leaned back against the cabin, worried.

The Dragon kept looking at him in disbelief, as if he were a puzzle of some kind.

“You have done me a kindness,” said the Dragon. “All I have for you is a path through great danger.”

Simon pulled his crossbow into his arms, still wary. “What does that mean?”

The Black Dragon looked seaward. “Our path is set. We will find our way together. Where the Light Dragons are meeting. Across the world…”

“Across the world?”

“To London, boy…to London…”

The Dragonman closed his eyes. A great ruckus sounded as the sails on the junk burst to life. They swung into place. The wind laid its hands on them. The ship had set sail by the Black Dragon’s magic.

Simon looked around in amazement. The junk was seaworthy. The old vessel still worked!

He put his face toward the wind, closing his eyes. Praying for luck.

He took a deep breath. He’d done it. He’d proven…useful.

The junk rolled over the waves, pressing toward the city of London, an ocean away.

Deep in the heart of the Black Dragon’s home, Aldric was examining everything he could find about the old creature. Perhaps there was a clue as to where they had gone. As he paged through yellowed scrolls of Chinese writing, and books that breathed as he held them, Aldric’s mind focused on one problem only: getting his son back.

He wasn’t even concerned about the world anymore, or the location of the wicked Serpents. He just wanted his son. If the world ended tomorrow, at least they would be together.

The Black Dragon’s magic had lingered behind. Flickering ash
drifted around the room. Beetles crackled under Aldric’s feet as he explored the chambers. In one room he found an aviary, where black canaries twittered in cages and never saw the sun.

Deeper in, he found a small, beautifully carved wooden table that held wine chalices and dirty plates. Many guests had dined and drunk with the old Dragon. Not long ago.

And then he saw something that gave his heart a chill.

All around the base of the ceremonial table were medallions.

Medallions from other Dragons.

Dozens and dozens of them.

He could see the mark of the Water Dragon of Venice, of the Russian Dragon, of the Dragon of Paris—they had all been here. They had spoken with this Peking Black Dragon, and they had left tribute. Tokens of friendship. Many tokens.

How many more Serpents were a part of this? Evil was flooding the earth. His boy was out there with a creature of profound darkness.

When Simon awoke, it was night. Stars gleamed in the black velvet canopy above him. The face of the Black Dragon was staring down at him. It was dark, but for just an instant Simon thought the Dragon had an expression of distaste, of disgust…

But it was just an instant, and he might have been mistaken.

“You should eat,” said the Black Dragon politely, and he handed the boy a plate of noodles. Simon took it gladly.

“I am feeling better, for the moment,” said the Black Dragon. “It pleases me to see I can still manage some of my own magic. I heated the plate myself.” He paused. “You are supposed to be impressed.”

Simon gave it a try. The food was good.

The Black Dragon dined with him, feeding his canary bits of noodles. At the reptile’s clawed feet, beetles roamed about.

The Dragon explained that it couldn’t be helped; even gentle Dragons drew insects to them. At sea the effect was less severe than on land. Tonight, only a small cloud of butterflies managed to trail the ship, fluttering above its white wake. Moonlight glittered on the blue winged insects.

Simon’s thoughts were still of his father. He tried to shake the notion that he had betrayed him. It felt terrible to leave him behind, no matter what the reason. Maybe in the end, Aldric would see Simon’s actions as brave. It took courage to act against a father’s wishes.

It was possible, he had begun to think, that the Black Dragon had helped him find that courage. Perhaps there was something in the soup. The pipe smoke was strange, as well; perhaps the smoke had burned his eyes and made him see things differently.

The Dragon was smoking the pipe now. Nothing was strange about it here.
I’m just thinking like my father
, Simon realized.
Distrusting everything.

“How old are your years, son?” said the Chinese Dragon.

“I’m thirteen. No. Fourteen,” he realized, startled. “Fourteen today. Not that anyone cares…” He had forgotten his own birthday. He wondered how that was possible, but days had been passing like wild horses lately. He hadn’t been thinking about himself.

“Is that so? Fourteen years of age? You do not look so old as this.”

Simon nodded unhappily.

The Dragonman went on, “And your father takes you into battle at such an age? Does he not realize the dangers of a Serpentine?”

“He realizes it. He doesn’t trust anyone else to protect me.”

“If I had a son…I would not send him out in battle. I would protect him from warfare no matter what the cost. No matter what his age.”

Simon looked at the Dragon.

“I suppose I should not speak. What do I know of these things? I am old; that does not make me wise. I will tell you, though, that I regret having no children,” said the Dragon.

“Maybe one day with a Light Dragon, you’ll have a child.”

The Pyrothrax looked at him oddly, maybe just sadly—Simon wasn’t sure.

“Perhaps,” he said, finally. “Perhaps there are as many wonders that lie ahead as there are terrors.”

Simon considered this for a moment and said, “None of those terrors will come from you, I hope.”

The Dragon lowered his head and peered over his tiny eyeglasses. “Still you do not trust me?”

“Let’s just say I’m not sure I trust you.”

The Dragon frowned. “Sadly, I must say it is perhaps for the best. My magic is untrustworthy. Terrors, yes, may come our way. But I shall work against that.”

Simon nodded, satisfied for now.

Birds flew by in the night, lit up by the moon glow. Simon noticed that as the sea birds gathered near, they were chased off by black vultures like those in Beijing. At night, against the torn-silk clouds and the stars and the white-skimmed black ocean, the
dreary flyers looked almost pretty. They stayed together, eyeing the ship with their glassy eyes glinting from the moon. Simon watched the vultures winging after the ship for miles and miles.

The shapes unnerved Simon, and he stayed awake nearly all night.

I
T WAS JUST BEFORE
dawn.

Sunlight was licking at the edges of the horizon.

Ahead, on deck, in the dim light of morning, a Knight on horseback drifted past the ship.

Simon squinted.

The Knight was made of smoke.

Jolted, the boy looked to the Black Dragon, who was sleeping on deck, his curled pipe still in his mouth. As the smoke left his pipe, it was making shapes, dozens and dozens of them, and all around Simon the smokeshapes enlarged and drifted.

Other Knights, and other horses, formed from the pipe smoke. They were huge and fearsome, and moved slowly, heavily, gliding away onto the sea, to break apart in the wind.

Simon realized the smoke was sculpted from the dreams of the Dragon.

Curious, he crept to the sleeping creature, who was talking in his sleep. He appeared to be having a nightmare.

“No, no,” he moaned groggily, “Do not kill me, Knight…. Let me live…”

The Dragon stirred restlessly, his eyelids quivering. He muttered on, in Chinese, as the canary on his shoulder hopped about, disturbed.

Simon took the pipe from the Dragon’s mouth and set it safely aside. He picked up the woolen blanket that had fallen from the Dragon’s chair and laid it gently on the old creature. The Dragon relaxed, slipping into a more comfortable slumber.

Pleased with his work, Simon stepped back to let him sleep a bit longer.

The pipe unfurled the last of its smoke, which took the shape of a tiny junk that slipped lazily out over the ocean, expanding and growing until it was almost as large as life, and in the smoky hues, Simon could see the outline of a boy and the Dragon himself on its deck. The pleasant image drifted away above the tides, until a flock of seabirds and the breeze passed through it, making it into a stringy mist.

The boy had seen the creature’s inner heart and found only fear there.

Thus, for better or worse, Simon came to put his faith in a Dragon.

This was something his father would never have allowed. The Black Dragon was not to be trusted. Simon was too generous and innocent a person to understand the dark ways of the world. Aldric told himself he should have seen that.

He stood in the Dragon’s den and felt rage take over. He kicked violently against the table and yelled out in anger. As it
cracked and echoed in the chamber, Aldric heard the patter of running feet.

A man was fleeing the tunnels, and Aldric chased him down. He threw him against the wall and drew his sword to his throat.

“Who are you?” Aldric cried.

“No pain, please, no pain,” he answered. “I serve the old man who lives here. I brought feed for his birds. He was to be gone.”

“Gone where?” Aldric prepared to use the sword. “Your life depends on it.”

“He is…good. Good to me…”

In his desperation, Aldric grew furious. “He has my son—where is he now?”

“England,” said the terrified servant. “He would not hurt anyone. He’s been forced to this. It’s beyond anyone’s control. He serves a powerful master. The only thing anyone can hope for now is to find a good master, and hope to live through it.”

The Asian man told Aldric where he could find his son in London. Aldric lowered his sword. The servant went on, out of breath: “Your time will be brief with the boy. Your time, and the time of all of us who are human, is ending. The Dragons are remaking the land.”

The man had no fight left in his eyes, as if brainwashed by his time with the Dragon. “They are united now, one effort. One mission. It is all but done. Serve them and you have hope. My master is a good one. All of you who have raged against them have lost now.”

Aldric began walking away.

“They will now dominate all mankind as they have always wanted,” the servant said after him.

Aldric kept his stride.

“All that is left for us is to enjoy the days we have left, the freedom we now cling to.” His voice echoed down the tunnel as Aldric headed out. “Go to your son. May you find him before the End Time.”

Aldric left the underground chamber and made his way through the city, numb with worry. In the countryside, he found his jet and ordered a course for Russia. It was the longest flight of his life.

Hours and hours later, he returned to the Ship with No Name, long awaiting his arrival. Fenwick the fox lifted its head, rushing to him with joy.

It took a moment for Aldric to feel the ship was secure enough to launch as he went to a wood console at the front of the ship and set the lever forward. He placed his hand on a metal engraving of a world map, his finger on London, and the magic that was left in the ship calculated his desired destination.

Patting Fenwick, Aldric felt the ship surge to life, then moved to a floorboard, opening a hidden cabinet where his brother’s sword and other weapons lay waiting.

“A bit unwieldy for one man,” he said to himself, looking over the devices. “But I’ll need anything I can get….”

The weapons here would augment the ones he always relied on. The Knight now stood ready for battle. He took his ship from Russian waters and left with all speed to London. The Ship with No Name had never sailed so fast. Maradine’s magic, woven into the lines and threaded into the sails, labored hard.

Aldric arrived just hours after the Black Dragon.