Hunting of the Last Dragon (12 page)

Greetings, Brother. You look worn out. Jing-wei told me you sat with Father Matthew all night, and that he clings to this world, still. Are you sure you want to do this work with me today? You do? Very well. But sign if you want to stop, for well I know the weariness that sorrow brings.

I see you've been drawing again, along the top of the page. A dragon, and remarkably well done, too! But if you don't mind my saying so, there needs to be a horn at the end of its nose, between its nostrils. 'Tis about the length of your quill, the horn. You can draw it in later, and then your picture will be wonderfully true to the real creature.

Meanwhile, I'll tell you of the plot that Old Lan made for the slaying of it.

That very night, with the three of us around the
fire, she told Lizzie and me of her scheme. Deep-laid it was, shrewd and purposeful, and I had the feeling that she'd heard it long ago from Ambrose, and held it in her heart, and dwelled on it long nights of late, while the dragon ravaged our land. She was excited, telling of it, zealous and exact, like a king plotting war.

“You have to know your enemy,” she said, “so I'll tell you all that Ambrose told me. First, know the dragon's three great strengths: fire, swiftness, and flight. Its fire you already know—you've seen what it can do. What you didn't see tonight was its swiftness. Ambrose said a dragon can turn a circle upon a single foot; you might come up behind it, but afore you blink, it will have spun about and covered you with its fire. And it flies very quiet, for 'tis light, and can drift great distances without a sound. And those are its only strengths.

“So listen well, Jude of Doran, for now you will learn its weaknesses, and by these you will gain the mastery. The dragon has no great brain, and is not cunning, as wolves and wildcats are. Neither does it see well. Its eyes are on either side of its head, and it sees nothing straight in front of it, but has to turn its head to see about itself, and then it sees things distorted, from the side, as it were. It cannot judge distances aright, and uses far-flung fire to catch its prey, as a
spider spreads a web. Its hearing is not good, but it knows a man's approach by the tremor of his footsteps in the ground. Its best sense is its smell, and by that it hunts. That is why it flies at day's end, when cooking-fires send up their smoke, signalling where the villages are. This dragon that we saw needs easy prey, such as humans, for it has never learned from a parent how to hunt the wild mountain beasts or the creatures of the sea. It is but young, small yet, and unsure how to kill except by fire. It's not vindictive or evil, else it would have killed us tonight, afore it flew away. 'Tis only after food. And, in spite of all the tales, dragons are not bold. They will fly off sooner than fight, though they are fierce enough when threatened—as are we all. They are sorely misunderstood, and should never have been hunted out of existence. Ambrose himself said that, with deep regret.”

“Mayhap this one, too, is only misunderstood, and should not be hunted,” I said, hoping to stir some doubt in the old crone. “Mayhap Ambrose would wish us to leave it well alone, for it may grow to hunt a different prey, and leave off killing folk.”

Lan cackled. “You don't wriggle out of it that easily, boy,” she said. “Your dragon has tasted human flesh and found an easy prey. There'll be no changing of its ways. It has to be destroyed. And the power to do that
lies in Jing-wei's knowledge, and in your hands.”

“Then you'd better show me,” I said. “What is this weapon we have, that cannot fail?”

Lan got up and hobbled over to a corner, the farthest from the fire. Taking the curved bone she used for digging in her garden, she began digging up the earthen floor. Not far beneath the beaten surface was a wooden board, and this she pulled up, with some difficulty. I supposed it had not been moved for many a year. From a hole beneath she pulled a bag, well wrapped in rags. Then she came back to the firelight, but sat a safe distance from the flames. Lizzie leaned forward upon her stool, her face eager and intent. I tried not to look too eager, though I was all atremble. What mystery was here, what powerful witchery?

Carefully Lan untied the twine about the sack's opening, and took out a round bundle wrapped well with thick skins. Several layers there were, some of the skins still with fur, and of animals unknown to me. Last of all was a bundle wrapped in black cloth, strong and close-woven. This she also opened, and before us there lay a pile of dust. Or sand. Or ash, or anything, save weaponry.

“What's this?” I cried. “A jest, to wind me up? By God's belly and blood, you push me too far!”

Lizzie laid her hand upon my arm. “Peace, Jude,”
she said. “It looks harmless enough, but this dust has more death in it than twenty swords.”

I looked at Lan; she was smiling a little, amused. Witch! You're enjoying this, I thought. Leaning over, I took a pinch of the powder, and sniffed it. It smelled like nothing I knew.

“Is it poison?” I asked, brushing the stuff from my fingers, lest I die of a sudden.

“Nay,” said Lan. “'Tis something yet unknown in this land. But for hundreds of years it has been known in my land, and Jing-wei knows of it, and full well she knows its strength. There is destruction in every particle. It burns, this powder, Jude. And when it burns, it burns with unspeakable violence, with the sudden strength of a mighty wind. And if there are, placed within this powder, bits of sharp steel or flint, then these are flung out with such force that they tear to pieces everything in their path. Even armour is pierced, and shields, and wood. I have seen enemy soldiers so mangled that there was nothing left but tattered, bloody flesh. And not one man only is destroyed in such a blast, but many. 'Tis like letting loose a thousand hellish blades all at once, in the blinking of an eye. Nothing survives such a blast—not even a dragon.”

I moved away from the dust, and Lan chuckled as
she wrapped it away again within its cloths and skins. “'Tis safe enough for now,” she said. “It needs fire to set it off. That's why it's wrapped so well. One spark is all it needs. But you are right to move away. This dust belongs to Jing-wei, and will not be touched again by you.”

“What happens if it doesn't have the flints and steel in it?” I asked. “Is it all fire and wind?”

“Something like that,” said Lizzie. “By itself, with coloured powders mixed in it, and shot high into a night sky, it makes beautiful fire-flowers. They are brighter than the moon, and can be seen for miles around. My father used to make them on the nights of great festivals, and for celebrations. But mixed with sharpened steel, and set alight close to enemies, 'tis deadly. I know how to set it off, Jude. I used to watch my father make the fire-flowers, when I was a child. He took great care, though, for sometimes there were accidents and people were badly burned. Handled with skill, the dust is a weapon that will conquer any foe.”

“And what if it kills us, too?” I said. “What protection do we have against it?”

“Distance,” said Lan. “I'm hoping that even you won't be fool enough to stand right next to it with a flaming torch, boy. You place the bundle of steel and powder in the entrance to the dragon's lair, and the
dragon itself will set it alight with its fiery breath. And then all will be over, in less time than you can blink.”

“What if the beast won't go near to it?” I asked. “What if it won't breathe on it?”

“Then Jing-wei knows of another way. Mayhap you will have to wait until the dragon sleeps, and place the bundle next to it. I'll show Jing-wei how to make a long trail with dry rags, leading to the bundle of powder. The trail of rags can be as long as needed. Then you hide in a place of protection, and set the rags alight. The fire will creep along them to the bundle of powder and steel, and afore the dragon knows what is happening, it will be pierced to its fiery heart as if by a hundred fatal swords. 'Tis all a matter of timing.”

“I don't think I want to touch the stuff,” I muttered. “It's from the pits of hell.”

“It may seem like magic to you now, Jude,” said Lan, “but not a hundred years hence, this powder will be on every battleground in England.”

She put the bag of death away in its hole, covered it up, then brought back something else from one of her shelves. It was a pot of flints and shards of steel. I had noticed it before, when I was poking about when she was out, and thought she used the flints and shards to torture frogs, or to stick into effigies of enemies, to put doom-spells on them.

“Ambrose collected these,” Lan said. “There are more than two hundred shards in here—enough to deal a fatal injury to your dragon, I'll warrant.”

“Ambrose collected them?” I asked. “Was he going to use your fire-dust?”

“Aye, he thought of it,” she said. “When he was here, there were still a few dragons about, and one—an old wounded beast—made trouble hereabouts. It were more than sixty winters past, now. But he . . . he died afore he had the chance. I kept all these things, in case this need should arise.”

“This is all to do with Ambrose, isn't it?” I said, suddenly angry. “'Tis nothing to do with helping me avenge my family, or saving folk from the dragon. This is to try out Ambrose's crackbrained plot! This is all for
his
sake!”

“'Tis not crackbrained!” she spat, standing up over me with the pot of shards still in her hands. I thought she was going to break it over my head. “One day, Jude,” she said, “you'll be thankful for all that the fates have done for you.”

To my great relief she put away the pot with its deadly contents, but came back with a small jar that smelled of healing oils. This she gave to me, and told Lizzie to sit down. “I'll teach you to massage Jing-wei's feet, to keep them supple and ease the pain in them,”
she said to me. “You must do it twice a day, then bandage her feet firm again, to keep them mending straight. Sit in front of her. That's right. Now, remove her shoes and bandages.”

It was an odd lesson, massaging a maid's feet. Lan showed me which way the muscles lay, and how to work with them and not against them. She told me the places to avoid, where bones had been reset, and showed me how to flex the toes to help ease them in their new positions. Where skin had been broken I learned to oil the scars well, to prevent them from contracting and causing the feet to curl under again. I was right earnest about the task, wanting to do well, but Lizzie laughed at times, mayhap because my unfamiliar hands tickled. I was glad to give her some pleasure, after all she had been through.

After, when the fire burned low and we were sipping bowls of ale and thinking of sleep, Lan said, “Tomorrow we'll talk of your journey, and how you can find out where the dragon dwells.”

“I already know where it lives,” I said. “I heard a minstrel describe the place. 'Tis on the western coast, in St. Alfric's Cove. Men on a passing ship gave report of it.”

“Do you know where this cove is?” asked Lan.

“I've forgot,” I replied, allowing myself a brief, wild
hope that that might end the matter.

“It is past the city of Twells,” said Lizzie. Seeing my surprise, she smiled a little and added, “I was listening to the minstrel, too, that night. There's a little village on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the cove. It keeps a fire burning every night, to warn ships away, since so many were wrecked there in times past.”

“It should not be too difficult to find, once you have directions to Twells,” said Lan. “It seems, then, that you have all the knowledge you need.”

I was sorely tempted to point out that it was courage I needed, not knowledge, but I closed my mouth. Looking at me sharp, Lan said, “We all have dragons to conquer, one way or another, Jude. Have no fear; you will be well prepared. All this was written in your stars.”

And talking of what is written, Brother Benedict, I think you've done enough for this day.

I'll bring Jing-wei after supper, and she can tell you more about her country, if you wish, and about their ways of making books. Mayhap the Abbot would like to hear her, too; he's zealous about his dream that everyone will read, and determined to increase by a hundredfold the books in your library here. The scriptorium is crowded, as he's training twenty more brothers to copy manuscripts. There's parchment aplenty, he says, and ink, but the quills are running
short. The geese in your monastery farmyard are overplucked, and are becoming devilish difficult to catch, and he's asking all the guests who come to spread the word that he will take a goose in payment for hospitality here, instead of money. He's so full of zeal, I didn't like to point out that the farmyard may soon be overburdened with too many geese. I suppose he'll discover that himself, when they start cluttering up the cloisters and honking through the hallelujahs.

I'd wipe that smile off your face if I were you, Brother—you've got sixty books to copy out when this one of ours is done!