The Dragon Charmer (17 page)

The clatter of iron-shod hooves on stone, the shout of challenge, the irregular tramp of following feet—these sounds came to him as if from a long way away, though in reality they were close at hand. He saw the warrior in his strange armor, made of some dark, unreflecting metal, triple-plated like rhinoceros hide, scratched and pitted from a hundred fights. The visor was lifted and what little Will could distinguish of the face between the cheek guards was similarly battered, no youthful hero but a man callused with years, pockmarked with battles. His eyes were mere chinks of brilliance between leathern folds of skin. He wore a broadsword and carried a
heavy shield, so scarred the original blazon could no longer be guessed, and a lightweight throwing spear. The men behind him were a motley collection, mounted and on foot, armed with assorted weapons. Yeomen and bowmen, villeins and villains, they stood in a half circle at a range chosen by some intuitive accord, close enough to threaten, far enough for flight. For all the diversity of faces every expression was the same: part fearful, part brave, desperately stubborn, yet with an underlying element that Will could not immediately identify. The monster will fry them, he thought, forgetting his own dread, and only their arrows will reach it if they can shoot fast enough. They must hope it will concentrate on the warrior. And then he understood the significance of that careful space. This was no safety margin: it was the arena of battle, the killing ground. The men, despite their courage and their doggedness, were not an army but an audience, and the undercurrent that united their expressions, drawing them to that place, holding them within the periphery of danger, was curiosity.

Dream or visitation, Will would remember what followed all his life. The scraping noise of great wings unfolding, catching the breeze like spinnakers—the rattlesnake speed of the uncoiling neck the hiss of indrawn air as the jaws opened. The warrior dropped to a crouch in the lee of his shield and cast his spear. At the same instant, the dragon flamed. There were screams, terrible but brief. The cliffs glowed red. Will knew he was burning, he sensed the heat searing through him, yet he felt no pain. When the blast struck he saw rock melt and bubble; plant life within a ten-yard radius was incinerated, blown away in a cloud of ash flakes. He did not know what became of the warrior, though he thought he caught a glimpse of him, through a veil of fire, still down on one knee, protected by some power in his shield. But what he saw most clearly was the spear. It must have been thrown with incredible force, or perhaps it had an impetus of its own, for it sped on against the jet-powered blast of the dragon’s breath. The shaft kindled and became a streak of white flame, but the sharpened head appeared untouched, even unwarmed. Will saw it with perfect definition, a black
splinter against the streaming fires. He sensed that it was neither rock nor metal, but made of some other, more potent substance. The air was split in its path, the flames parted. Straight down the dragon’s throat it flew; the monster hiccuped as if swallowing a pill, and it was gone.

For perhaps a minute nothing happened. Then the dragon inhaled, sucking both heat and flame from the atmosphere so swiftly that Will shivered in the sudden cold. And now the fire was inside its body, coursing through its veins like liquid lightning. Every scale glowed red-hot, every horn, spike, spine was limned with a flickering radiance. The dragon was translucent with fire: its back-flung head arched and strained at its neck; its wings lashed; its eyes were globes of blood. Through the curve of its breast Will saw the burning coal of its heart, dark as a ruby, pulsing like an enormous drum. Then a column of flame shot from the gaping vent of its jaws, blazing starward. Endlessly high it soared, until the last of the fires were expelled, and the dragon sank back into darkness. The pillar hung in the sky for a while like a contrail, then gradually it wavered, breaking into separate tongues of flame that floated away, coiling and dancing like snakes, fading to a glimmer that was swallowed up at last in an infinity ofblue.

The dream, too, was fading, its intensive reality blurring into a mere nocturnal fantasy. The dragon’s dead, Will told himself, snatching at the thought even as it slipped away from him, and his relief was mingled with regret, because in its rage and destruction there had been a terrible splendor that might never come again. But as the dream receded he seemed to see the mythical reptile arise once more, dark against the myriad stars, its fires spent or hidden, and it appeared to grow, and grow, until its head was silhouetted against the moon, and the span of its wings eclipsed whole galaxies. But the image was no longer clear and immediate, only an ethereal impression, which dimmed into the shadows of sleep. In the morning the dream remained with him, vivid as experience, but that last fleeting chimera endured only as an afterthought, a cobweb clinging to the borders of memory.

*  *  *

“Did you dream?” Will asked Gaynor at breakfast.

“I think so,” she said. “But it’s all mixed up. I can’t remember anything properly. What about you?”

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, but he didn’t elucidate.

Mrs. Wicklow, busying herself about the kitchen, added her bit. “It’s no wonder you’re dreaming,” she said, “the way things have been here. Happen troubles always upset your sleeping, one way or t’other. I had a strange dream myself, only last night.”

“What was it?” Will enquired.

“Fern was getting married, wearing the dress upstairs. Lovely, she looked, quite lovely. But when I saw the groom, it wasn’t Marcus Greig. It was that man from the gallery, the one who disappeared all them years ago. Javier Holt, that was the name. What do you make of that?”

“I don’t like it,” Will said frankly. “I don’t like it at all.”

Trisha was still on compassionate leave and Mrs. Wicklow appeared to find a panacea in housework, attacking the most furtive corners with the vacuum cleaner, poking a long-handled feather duster into crevices hitherto unexplored. Will and Gaynor retreated to his studio—off limits to the housekeeper except for supervised Hoovering to discuss his dream. He began to sketch the dragon—not a fairy-tale depiction of an elegant reptilian form but a close-up of the head: the crocodile grin studded with uneven teeth, the rough-hewn scales laminated like oyster shells, the humps and jags of bone that crested its brow. But when it came to the eye, he could manage only the outline. “It must have been terrifying,” said Gaynor, peering over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Will grimaced at the memory. “Magnificent and terrifying. Afterward, you tend to forget the fear. Of course, if I’d really been there I’d have been fried to a crisp. But I don’t see what it has to do with Fern. Unless …”

“Maybe Ragginbone will know,” Gaynor said, missing that last uncertain word.

“Ragginbone knows some of the answers some of the time,” said Will. “Don’t let his air of venerable wisdom fool you. He’d be the first to admit that what he expounds are theories, not facts. We have the clue: it’s for us to work out what it means.”

“It reminds me of something,” Gaynor said abruptly. “Something I’ve seen recently … only I can’t remember where.” She clutched her head in sudden frustration, tugging at her hair. “I think … it was an incunabulum. I can see Gothic lettering… illuminated capitals. It must have been at work—no, that’s not right…”

“Don’t force it,” said Will. “It’ll come.”

He retreated into his own thoughts and Gaynor tried not to strain after that elusive recollection still nagging at the fringes of her mind. It will come, she told herself, echoing his words. Stop thinking about it, and it will come.

They had arranged to be at the clinic at three o’clock, taking over from Marcus, but the first person they saw when they got there was Ragginbone, waiting on a wooden bench in the garden with Lougarry at his feet. There was a lawn to the left of the driveway overlooked by a terrace where patients on the way to recovery could sit in sun or shade. The bench was in the midst of the lawn, under a tree with hanging branches; not a willow, Gaynor thought, maybe a weeping ash. The leaves were just beginning to open: their color was that fresh light green that is the essence of spring. They sat there in a leaf-curtained grotto, talking about Will’s dream.

“That cut on Fern’s arm,” Will said “that was something done to her spiritual body—her absent self—that affected her physical body. Is that right?”

Ragginbone nodded. Gaynor said: “What does that have to do with—” but the Watcher silenced her with a peremptory gesture.

“So,” Will pursued slowly, “it ought to work the other way. If we could somehow strengthen her physical body, it should increase the power of her spirit—wherever that is.”

“How do you propose to
strengthen
her?” Gaynor said crossly, annoyed because she did not understand, and angry at her own petty annoyance. “Vitamins?”

Will ignored her. “The spearhead,” he said. “I’m sure I
think
—that it was a fragment of the Lodestone. You told us—” he was addressing Ragginbone “—that when it was broken the Ruling Families of Atlantis kept the pieces. If that warrior was a descendant of the exiles, he might have owned one. And against the dragon, it could have represented his
only chance. I know this is all ifs and maybes, but… Fern’s Gift was reinforced by contact with the matrix. If we could find that spearhead, lay it in her hand, perhaps it would give her the power to return to herself.”

“It’s an idea,” said Ragginbone. “The first we’ve had. As to whether it would work I do not know But any plan is better than no plan. I will tell you this much. There is a story of Pharaïzon, one of the greatest of dragons, that says that at one time he was wounded by an arrow or spear whose head was made from a holy relic. It may be true; it may simply be that the Christians got hold of a good legend and adapted it. Anyway, the holy object entered into his body and endowed him with a strength immeasurable, so that he was called the Curse of God, and if he had been evil before, now he was mad with a sacred madness, and no one would challenge him. In the end, according to some sources, he perished in his own fires; but the holy thing, whatever it was, was never recovered. Some said it was a jewel, some said a fingerbone of Christ or one of the saints: those early Christian martyrs scattered their bones widely. It hadn’t occurred to me to connect the legend with the Lodestone, but it might fit. Three of the splinters were rumored to have been saved from the downfall of Atlantis. However, little is known of what became of them, only myths, and stories without endings. How will you begin your search?”

“I don’t know,” Will admitted. “Gaynor thinks she remembers reading something about this in an old book, but she can’t recall where.”

“I wish you luck,” said Ragginbone, “if there is any Do nothing rash. Watch over Fern. I must go south for a while”

“I thought you were going to help?” Will interjected.

“That’s why I’m leaving,” Ragginbone replied. “Like Gaynor, I am chasing something on the verge of memory, something from very long ago. That chase takes me elsewhere. I will keep your ideas in mind, and find out what I can, and return when I can.”

“But what about Fern?” said Will.

“This
is
about Fern. I repeat, take care of her. Be cautious. Lougarry will stay with you.”

Will bombarded him with further questions and pleas to
remain, or at least explain, but he would not be persuaded. He strode off toward the main road and they entered the clinic via the front door, while Lougarry sat patiently outside.

In Fern’s room, Marcus Greig got to his feet. Will’s mind was elsewhere and it took several moments before he realized that Marcus had launched into what was clearly a prepared speech. He sounded embarrassed, upset, uncomfortably determined. “I can’t stand it,” he was saying, “just sitting here, staring at her, day after day, unable to
do
anything.”

“It’s been only four days,” Will murmured; but Marcus continued regardless.

“The inaction is driving me insane,” he said. “One minute we’re getting married, and then—this. I can’t cope. I know I don’t show it, but deep down I’m a sensitive person, and it’s starting to get to me. I’m going back to London. I need distraction—I need
work
—I need something to pass the time. Otherwise I’m just going to sink into the most awful condition of apathy and gloom, and I won’t be the slightest use to anyone, least of all Fern. I’ll phone every day. I want to know if she so much as twitches an eyelash—”

“If?” said Will.

“When. Dear God, I mean
when.”
He doesn’t even blush, thought Gaynor. “Look, if there’s anything I
can
do, just say the word. Call, and I’ll come whizzing up the motorway. But there’s no point in my hanging around here ad infinitum, like some poor mug waiting for a bus that’s been canceled.”

“No,” Will said very coolly. “No point.”

“I knew you’d understand. Tell your father, won’t you? It was a bloody difficult decision, but it had to be made. Life must go on, cliché though it may be. You can’t hold the pause button down indefinitely.” He shook hands with Will, kissed Gaynor, took one last, long look at Fern. Then he was gone. A sense of bustle went with him, leaving the room as still and quiet as a sepulchre.

“It’s just us now,” said Will, temporarily discounting his father’s contribution.

They felt very alone.

VIII