The Last Dragonslayer

Maltcassion again

An hour later I was heading off to the Dragonlands again, the Rolls-Royce bedecked with Fizzi-Pop stickers. Painted on the door was a big sign saying:

Dragonslayer

Personally sponsored by

Fizzi-Pop, Inc.

The Drink of Champions

Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do for the greater good. After Mr Hawker’s warning I had dashed out and collared the Fizzi-Pop representative who had been camping outside the Dragonstation. He and his opposite number at Yummy-Flakes breakfast cereals had quickly called their bosses and bid over the phone for my endorsement of their product. Yummy-Flakes had pulled out at M95,000 but Fizzi-Pop had gone all the way to my asking price of M100,000. It was a simple deal: I was to wear one of their hats and jackets whenever in public, and the Slayermobile had to be similarly adorned. I had to appear in five commercials and do nothing to impinge on the good name of the product. The alternative was debtor’s prison so I didn’t have much choice. Hawker, as you might expect, was furious. He had called his lawyers and tried to find a way round the problem, but this was something they had not expected. It wasn’t the end of it, I could see that, but at least it was the first round to me. And actually, I quite liked Fizzi-Pop.

I saw as I approached that even more people had gathered at the Dragonlands. Just behind the marker stones there was now a 500-yard-deep swathe of tents, mobile eateries, toilets, marquees, first-aid posts and parked cars. The word was spreading, and citizens were arriving from the farthest kingdoms of the land. It was rumoured that claimants were arriving from the Continent and masquerading as unUK citizens in order to be able to stake a claim. A coachload of Danes had been detained at Oxford, a boot-load of rollmop herrings having given them away.

Sunday at noon was a little over twenty-four hours away, and if the premonition came true there would be an unseemly rush to claim everything there was as soon as the force-field was down. It was estimated that a total of approximately 6.2 million people would claim the 350 square miles in under four hours, and the vast majority would be disappointed. The injury rate was pegged at about two hundred thousand, and the fight over land would, it was thought, lead to an estimated three thousand deaths.

I bumped on to the Dragonland and drove up the hill towards Maltcassion’s lair. It was a beautiful day and peace and tranquillity still reigned within the lands. Birds were busy building nests and wild bees buzzed among the wild flowers, which grew in cheerful profusion on the unspoilt land. I found Maltcassion scratching his back against an old oak that bent and creaked under his weight.

‘Hello, Miss Strange!’ he said in a cheerful tone. ‘What brings you here?’

‘To speak with you.’

‘Well, cheer up, old girl, your face looks long enough to reach your feet!’

‘You don’t know what’s going on out there!’ I replied miserably, waving my hand in the direction of the outside world.

‘Oh, but I do,’ replied Maltcassion. ‘You can see the visible spectrum of light, can’t you? Violet to red, yes?’

I nodded and sat down on a stone.

‘A pretty poor selection, I should think!’ said the Dragon, stopping his scratching, much to the relief of the oak tree. ‘I can see much farther; past visible light and into both ends of the electromagnetic spectrum.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, poking at the dry earth with a stick.

‘Put it this way,’ continued Maltcassion. ‘Only seeing the visible part of the spectrum is like listening to a symphony and hearing only the kettle drums. Let me describe what I can see: at the slow end of the spectrum lie the languorous long radio waves that move like cold serpents. Next are the bright blasts of medium and short radio waves that occasionally burst from the sun. I can see the pulse of radar that appears over the hills like the beam of a lighthouse and I can see the strange point-sources of your mobile phones, like raindrops striking a pond. I can see the buzz of microwaves and the strange thermal images of the low infrared. Beyond this is the visible spectrum that we share; then we are off again, past blue and out beyond violet to the ultraviolet. We go past google rays and manta rays and then shorter still to the curious world of the X-ray, where everything bar the most dense materials are transparent. I had a cousin once who claimed he could see beyond X-rays and into the realm of the gamma, but to be frank I have my doubts. I can see all this, a beautiful and radiant world quite outside your understanding. But it’s not all just for fun. You see this?’

He showed me one of his ears. It folded into a flap behind his eye and was of a delicate mesh-like construction, a bit like the ribs on a leaf. He unfurled it for my benefit, rotated it and then slotted it away again.

‘A Dragon’s senses are far more keen than yours. In the radio part of the spectrum I can see your television and radio signals. But more than that, I can read them. I can pick up sixty-seven TV channels and forty-seven radio stations. I thought you were great on the Yogi Baird show.’

‘How about cable?’

‘Luckily, no.’

‘Then you know what’s going on outside?’

‘Pretty much. Ever since Marconi started crackling away with his radio sets the planet has been getting progressively noisier. I can block it out the same way you can shut your eyes against light, but even on a sunny day you can still see the sun through your eyelids. It’s the same with me. It’s very like a bad case of visual ringing in the ears.’

‘Then you heard about the incident this morning? The truck the police thought was taken by you?’

‘I heard something about that, yes. Quite what I would be doing stealing eighteen-wheelers is anyone’s guess; I don’t even have a driver’s licence. Have you had lunch?’

‘And you’re not bothered!’ I jumped up, my voice rising. ‘There are crowds of people outside waiting for you to die and take over this haven! Doesn’t that worry you?’

Maltcassion stared at me and blinked the lids above his jewel-like eyes.

‘It bothered me once. I am old now, and have been waiting for you for a number of years. But there is another place we can see. Not radio waves or gamma waves but another realm entirely—the cloudy sub-ether of potential outcome.’

‘The future?’

‘Ah, yes!’ said Maltcassion, raising a claw in the air. ‘The future. The undiscovered country. We all journey there, sooner or later. Don’t let anyone tell you the future is already written. The best any prophet can do is to give you the most likely version of future events. It is up to us to accept the future for what it is, or change it. It is easy to go with the flow; it takes a person of singular courage to go against it. It was long foreseen that the Dragonslayer who oversaw the last of our kind would be a young woman of singular mind, remarkable talents and generosity of spirit. She would set us free.’

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right Jennifer Strange?’ I asked, not recognising myself in Maltcassion’s description.

The Dragon changed the subject abruptly.

‘There is more, but it’s all so vague. I could remember it once, but there are so many thoughts in here that it’s difficult to work out.’

‘You heard about King Snodd and the Duke of Brecon lining up for battle?’

‘Yes; all is going to plan, Miss Strange.’

‘All to plan? This is your doing?’

‘Not everything. You will have to trust me on this.’

‘But I don’t understand.’

‘You will, little human, you will. Leave me. I shall see you Sunday morning—and don’t forget your sword.’

‘I won’t come!’ I said as defiantly as you can in front of forty tons of Dragon.

‘Yes you will,’ answered Maltcassion soothingly. ‘It is out of your hands as much as it is out of mine. The Big Magic has been set in motion and nothing will stop it.’

‘This is the Big Magic? You, me, the Dragonlands?’

He shrugged in a very human-like manner which seemed vaguely comical.

‘I know not. I cannot see beyond noon on Sunday; there can be only one reason for that. Premonitions come true because people want them to. The observer will always change the outcome of an event; the millions of observers we have now will almost guarantee it. You and I are just small players in something bigger than either of us. Leave now. I will see you on Sunday.’

Reluctantly, and with more questions than answers, I departed.

By the time I had got back to Zambini Towers, there had already been fresh allegations about Maltcassion’s supposed misdemeanours. I was called to them both, one after the other. Detective Norton was waiting for me, and this time he had what could only be described as a large smirk etched across his features.

‘Try and tell me this wasn’t a Dragon!’ He leered.

He led me on to a side road near the village of Goodrich and pointed at the ground. There was a black scorch mark on the road, the sort of mark an over-hot iron might make on a shirt. The scorch mark had left the clear imprint of a man, a spreadeagled pattern; I didn’t like the look of it.

‘Scorch mark, no body, classic sign of a Dragon. And,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘I have a witness!’ He introduced me to a wizened old man who smelt of marzipan. He was eating the foul substance out of a paper bag and was unsteady in speech and limb.

‘Tell the Dragonslayer what you saw, sir.’

The old man’s eyes flicked up to mine. He explained in a stammered and broken voice about balls of fire and terrible noises in the night. He spoke of his friend being ‘there one moment’ and ‘gone the next’. He showed me his scorched eyebrows.

‘Enough for you?’ asked Detective Norton in a humourless way.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Maltcassion is being framed. I was with the Dragon not two hours ago. This witness of yours wouldn’t last ten minutes in a court of law. The same burden of proof is required for a Dragon as it is for any other living creature.’

‘You’re becoming something of a pest,’ responded Detective Norton. ‘I’ve been a policeman for over twenty years. Who do you think did this if it wasn’t Maltcassion?’

‘Someone keen on getting the Dragonlands for themselves. King Snodd perhaps, or Brecon. Both of them have an interest in the lands.’

‘You’re crazy!’ he said, pointing a finger at me. ‘And what’s more, you’re dangerous. Accusing the King of complicity in murder? Have you any idea what could happen to you if I decided to make that public?’

He glared at me and I glared back.

‘C’mon,’ he said finally, ‘there’s another incident that I want you to see.’

He drove me ten miles towards Peterstow, where a field of cows had been torn literally limb from limb. It was not a pretty sight, and the flies were already buzzing happily in the heat.

‘Seventy-two heifers,’ announced Norton, ‘all dead. Talons, Miss Strange. Your friend Maltcassion. You have a duty to protect your charges and carry on your work. Maltcassion has gone loco in his old age. You must defend the realm.’

‘He didn’t do it.’

Norton rested his hand on my shoulder.

‘It doesn’t matter whether he did it or not, to be honest. All that matters is that there have been three separate incidents. You can check The Dragonslayer’s Manual if you want.’

I didn’t need to. He was right. As long as they had the hallmarks of Dragonattack, the three incidents was enough. These were the rules laid down by the Mighty Shandar four centuries ago and ratified by the Council of Dragons. Perhaps it was my destiny to kill Dragons; I was, after all, a Dragonslayer.