Dragon Seeker (2 page)

Vassili nodded, remembering stories of one particularly ferocious dragon that had roamed the countryside round his father’s castle at Trollsberg. “It couldn’t have been much fun having them prowling round the place,” he said, “but as for killing one … well,” he looked at his master in grudging
admiration
, “I wouldn’t like to face up to a dragon myself!”

“Having a good sword helped,” the magician answered. “It had to be sharp, of course!”

“May I ask how many dragons you killed?” Vassili asked, genuinely interested.

“Twenty-three,” Lord Jezail said proudly, his good humour restored. “You wouldn’t think so, looking at me now, but I was reckoned one of the best Dragon Seekers of my day! Of course, twenty-three wasn’t the record. That was held by the English knight, Sir Pendar.”

“You can hardly compare yourself to him, though,” Vassili objected, holding out a plate. “
He
had a magic sword, after all!
You
didn’t!
His
job was easy by comparison!”

“That’s true,” Lord Jezail mused, helping himself to a piece of cake. “He killed forty-nine dragons if the old stories are true.”

“And died trying to kill Arthur!”

“Yes, Arthur was to have been his fiftieth kill,” Jezail agreed. “You know the story, then?”

The count nodded. “Well, sort of. I know that the Lords of the North rescued Arthur and that he’s lived with the MacArthurs in Arthur’s Seat ever since …”

“Mmmm,” Lord Jezail bit into the slice of cake. “Sir Pendar’s buried in Edinburgh, too — in the castle rock. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t,” Vassili looked surprised. “In the rock, itself?” he frowned. “How on earth did the townspeople manage that?”

“They didn’t,” Lord Jezail answered. “The Lords of the North hexed his tomb out of the rock and guided the people to it. Once he’d been laid to rest with his sword, horn and flag by his side, they closed the tomb by magic. At least, so the story goes.”

“So he’s still there,” Vassili mused, “after all these years? With his sword and all?”

“As far as I know,” Lord Jezail nodded, putting the last piece of cake in his mouth and waving his hand to indicate that he’d finished eating.

Vassili rose to his feet to summon the servant and, in so doing, missed the strange expression that crossed his master’s face.

Dragonslayer, Lord Jezail thought, a sudden wave of
excitement
shooting through him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Dragonslayer; the magic sword that could pierce the scales of dragons! As Vassili had just so conveniently pointed out, it was still there … in Edinburgh!

Gripping his hands together to calm his racing mind, he was careful to keep a straight face. Vassili must never suspect. He knew the count. If he got so much as a tiny hint of the scheme that had suddenly flashed through his mind, he’d start putting all sorts of obstacles and objections in the way.

But … to
own
Dragonslayer! To become a
Dragon Seeker
once more! The thought was really quite breathtaking and, he realized excitedly, certainly more than possible; for he wouldn’t need his old strength to wield such a wonderful sword. Dragonslayer would slice into a dragon as easily as a knife slides through butter. And, as they were going to Scotland anyway, they could certainly include Edinburgh in their travels. If he failed — well, he wouldn’t be any worse off, but if he were to succeed …

Thoughts of Dragonslayer filled his mind for the rest of the day. Opening the tomb, he thought, might present problems, especially if it had been closed by magic … but, on the other hand, maybe not.

So it was that when night fell and lamps were lit in the town, he stood once again at the high window of the citadel. This time, however, his eyes were blind to the twinkling lights of Stara Zargana or the high peaks of the mountains
standing
stiffly against the darkening sky; for his mind was full of swords, dragons, magic … and the earthquake that might make all of his dreams come true.

“Hey, Clara,” Neil shouted excitedly, “tell Mum and Dad to come and look at the telly! There’s been an earthquake in Edinburgh and they’re showing it now!”

Clara called her parents and rushed to the TV set in the
living
room where the announcer talked them through the
earthquake
that had devastated Edinburgh and, more to the point, rocked the great castle that loomed, in all its majesty, over the city centre.

“My goodness,” Mrs MacLean said worriedly as they watched,” just look at the expressions on people’s faces!”

In the mobile phone footage, everyone on Princes Street was looking up in alarm at the sudden noise; a fearful,
growling
roar that sounded as though several jumbo jets were about to land on top of them! Some stared anxiously over the broad stretch of Princes Street Gardens towards the castle, thinking perhaps, that its guns had fired an unexpected salvo, but it was only when the ground started to shake and the pavement swayed beneath their feet that the truth dawned. It was an earthquake! Startled faces paled with fear as realization dawned that the dreadful roar was the voice of the earth itself.

They watched in awe as the TV screen showed cars braking frantically, shrieking to a halt as the road in front of them took on a life of its own. Horns blared as buses collided, their
terrified
passengers struggling to get out. Shoppers and assistants alike fled from stores and fought their way through the tumble of people struggling to keep their balance on the pavement
before they, too, were caught up in the heaving, rippling roller coaster that was Princes Street.

Stumbling across the road to the relative safety of Princes Street Gardens, they clung to the railings to keep their balance and watched, powerless, as the heaving earth continued to shake even the largest buildings.

“Look at that!” Clara gasped, pointing to the screen as
several
pillars fronting the art gallery bulged dangerously.

The cameras focused again on the garden side of Princes Street where a woman was screeching like a banshee! “The castle!” she was screaming, her face contorted with disbelief. “Look at the castle! It’s falling down!”

Fortunately, this proved to be a bit of an exaggeration for it wasn’t actually the castle that was falling but the part of the rock that lay below the esplanade. Clara gasped. It was like watching a film in slow motion for, in front of their
disbelieving
eyes, a huge part of the rocky slope bulged slowly outwards and then sheered away in an explosion of sound, sending a thundering avalanche tumbling down into the gardens and onto the railway line below.

“Thank goodness there were no trains running,” John MacLean said, as the video footage finished and the camera homed in on the castle itself, revealing the deep scar that had been carved out of its rock before panning down to the tumble of stone and earth that covered the railway line. “If that load of rock had hit the carriages, they would have been flattened!”

The announcer was saying much the same thing as the camera showed Princes Street where yellow-jacketed workers had already started clean-up operations. “Princes Street,” he said, “seems to have been badly hit, as you can see. A complete disaster zone! We are hearing, however, that the rest of the city seems to have escaped major damage. In fact, the earthquake
only seems to have affected Central Edinburgh.” He glanced casually at his monitor. “We’re expecting a report on its
magnitude
any minute now. I’ll give it to you as soon as it comes in.”

“I wonder if it shook Arthur’s Seat?” Mrs MacLean frowned, thinking of the great hill, shaped like a sleeping dragon, that dominated the Edinburgh skyline. “I hope the MacArthurs are alright!”

“I’d forgotten about them!” Neil gasped, for Arthur’s Seat was home to their friends; small faery folk called the MacArthurs.

Before they’d moved from Edinburgh to the Borders, Neil’s father had been the Park Ranger on Arthur’s Seat and both he and his sister, Clara, had not only played with the MacArthurs as small children, but had also met the enormous dragon that lived with them in the hill. Despite the fact that they now lived miles away, they’d nevertheless continued to be involved in many of their adventures. Sitting up anxiously, Neil looked at the TV, hoping it would show more of the city, but the camera had changed direction and was now moving over the deep cracks, piles of rubble and twisted tramlines that littered Princes Street.

“Maybe we could go up to Edinburgh at the weekend?” Clara suggested. “I’m a bit worried about the MacArthurs. Could we, Mum? I mean, once we’re there we can call our magic carpets and go into the hill.”

Neil nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, let’s do that,” he said. “It’s ages since we saw the MacArthurs!”

“And Arthur!” Clara smiled, thinking of the great red dragon that lived in the hill.

Mrs MacLean looked at her husband who nodded
thoughtfully
. “I don’t see why not,” he said unconcernedly. “You can tell them we were asking for them … and that we hope the
earthquake
didn’t do any damage.”

“If it did,” Clara laughed, “they’d just use magic to fix it.”

Clara didn’t know it, but at that particular moment, Lord Jezail was thinking much the same thing. Should he use his magic to mend Sir Pendar’s tomb?

He frowned in annoyance as sunlight, streaming in through a jagged gap in the outer wall, revealed a ceiling that tilted alarmingly and stone walls full of deep cracks. How
could
he have made such an error of judgement? The hex he’d cast had been too strong by far. Indeed, he’d been lucky that the tomb hadn’t slipped down the side of the castle rock with the
rock-slide
!

Taking a deep breath to steady his quivering nerves, he stepped back and took another searching look round the interior of the small stone chamber, his sharp eyes missing nothing as they darted here and there. A black flag with a golden sword in its centre listed crazily against one wall and, underneath its dusty folds, stood a huge coffin. Cut out of solid rock, it dominated the room. The heavy stone slab that had obviously been its lid, lay shattered on the floor, witness to the strength of the mighty earthquake he’d hexed up.

Reverently, he approached the coffin and peered inside. Would it be there, he asked himself anxiously? Would the sword be there?

At first, he was too taken aback to notice it, for although Sir Pendar lay in great splendour, his shining armour encased the white bones of his skeleton. His skull grinned up at him from the depths of his helmet; his bones showed clearly through the joints in his armour and his horn lay by his side. It was then that a burst of joy filled the magician’s heart — for the skeleton’s hand clutched a sword across its chest in a bony grasp. Dragonslayer! There was no doubt
about it! He feasted his eyes on its broad, embossed blade and fingered the delicate curve of the carved dragon that decorated its hilt. Dragonslayer! It was his for the taking!

His hand shook as he reached into the coffin to take the sword but Sir Pendar’s grasp was unyielding. He pulled at the sword but it didn’t move. Not an inch.

The magician’s face turned ugly. He hadn’t come all this way to find the sword and leave without it!

Seeing his face, the sword trembled within itself. The
earthquake
, totally unexpected, had frightened the wits out of it but when the lid of the coffin had slid off and crashed to the floor, a great well of happiness had surged through it. There was light: it could see!

Dragonslayer’s happiness, however, dimmed when the
magician
bent over the coffin, his face evil and triumphant. It had already sensed the presence of magic and the feeling was
confirmed
the minute Lord Jezail put his hand on its hilt.

The sword thought rapidly as a myriad of possibilities flashed through its mind. It would, quite naturally, have much preferred to have been found by a human; preferably some
simple
soul like Sir Pendar who had done
what
he was told,
when
he was told. Magicians, however, were a very different kettle of fish and the sword was wary. It was as Lord Jezail pulled again at the hilt that the sword gauged the depths of the magician’s power and was overtaken by doubt; for this was a powerful magician, indeed.

The sword sighed. It was the same story all over again! All its life, it had been hampered by the fact that it couldn’t move around on its own. It needed to belong to someone who would care for it, carry it around and obey its wishes. But a magician? It hesitated for a few seconds more, weighing up the
possibilities
— and then relaxed its grip, deciding that belonging to a
magician might, after all, have its advantages.

The magician pulled again, this time with all his strength — and promptly fell over backwards as the sword slid easily from Sir Pendar’s grasp. Staggering to his feet, he looked at it greedily. He felt its power and, holding it by its hilt, waved it triumphantly in the air so that the sunlight sparked off its
shining
blade.

It was then that a voice spoke to him.

He spun round, his eyes darting into every nook and cranny, but it was only when the voice spoke again that he realized that it came from the sword in his hand.

“Who are you?” the sword demanded. “What is your name?”

Lord Jezail froze. Hurriedly, he changed his grasp and held the blade of the sword flat across the palms of both hands and bowed to it, his mind in turmoil. It had never entered his head that Dragonslayer might have this kind of magic and he wasn’t at all sure if he was happy about it.

“My name is Lord Jezail … Lord Jezail of Ashgar,” he
stammered
.

“Ashgar?” The sword slowly changed colour and glowed with a golden hue as the information registered. “Ashgar …” it repeated in a different tone. “Where there is a valley of dragons?”

“Yes,” Lord Jezail answered, breathing a sigh of relief.

He had sensed the sword’s initial hesitation but mention of the Valley of the Dragons had done much to allay its fears.

Excitement flared through the sword at the very thought of the valley that had been famous even in the days of Sir Pendar. “We will go there,” it announced. “But not yet! First of all, I would like to bid farewell to my knight, Sir Pendar. Please hold me over his body, if you will!”

Lord Jezail raised his eyebrows. An order, he thought. Nicely
put, but an order nevertheless.

Obediently, he moved forward and, as he held Dragonslayer over the body of the knight, felt a beam of magic shiver from the blade of the sword. Gasping in surprise, he looked down to see that, once again, Sir Pendar clasped a sword between his bony fingers. A sword that was identical to the one he held in his hand.

“We cannot leave a knight without his sword,” Dragonslayer pointed out, sensing the magician’s surprise. “Sir Pendar was a good man and served me well. He deserves no less.”

Lord Jezail bowed in agreement but his mind was racing frantically. This wasn’t at all what he had expected. A magic sword, yes; a magic sword whose blade could pierce the scales of dragons, yes; but a sword that could talk, give orders and throw spells … this wasn’t what he’d had in mind at all!