The Last Dragonslayer

Brian Spalding—Last Dragonslayer

I thanked William of Anorak and hurried off towards the Duck and Ferret. It was shut so I sat down on a bench, next to a very old man who had skin like a pickled walnut and eyes sunk deep in his head. He wore a neat blue suit and homburg hat, and carried a cane with a silver top. He looked at me with great interest.

‘Good afternoon, young lady,’ said the old man in a chirpy voice, tipping his head back to allow the warmth of the sun to fall upon his face.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I replied, always meeting politeness with politeness as Mother Zenobia had taught me.

‘Is that your Quarkbeast?’ he asked, his eyes following the creature as it sniffed suspiciously at a statue of St Grunk the Probably Fictitious.

‘He’s totally harmless,’ I replied. ‘All that stuff about Quarkbeasts eating babies is just fear-mongering by the papers.’

‘I know,’ he replied, ‘I used to have a Quarkbeast once myself. Fiercely loyal creatures. Where did you find him?’

‘It was in Starbucks,’ I replied, ‘about two years ago. The manager said to me: “Your Quarkbeast is making the customers pass out in shock” and I turned round and Quark, there he was, staring at me. So I said he wasn’t mine, and they went to call the Beastcatcher, and I know what they do with Quarkbeasts, so I said he was mine after all and took him home. He’s been with me ever since.’

The old man nodded thoughtfully.

‘I rescued mine from a Quarkbaiting ring,’ he said, shuddering at the thought. ‘Frightfully cruel sport. He could chew his way through a London bus lengthwise in under eight seconds. A good friend. Does yours speak?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. I’m not even sure if he’s a boy or a girl. I wouldn’t know how to tell, and quite frankly, it might be undignified to try and find out.’

‘They don’t procreate in the usual manner,’ said the old man, ‘they utilise quantum reproduction—they are just suddenly there, seemingly out of nothing.’

I didn’t know this, and told him so.

‘Quarkbeasts always arrive in pairs,’ added the old man knowledgeably, ‘somewhere there will be an anti- Quarkbeast—a mirror image of your own. If paired Quarkbeasts come together they disappear in a flash of energy. Remember the explosion last year in Hythe, which they claimed was a gas explosion?’

‘Yes?’ I said slowly, for the explosion had left a crater twelve metres deep in a housing estate, and fourteen dead.

‘It was an unlucky confluence of Quarkbeasts. A separated pair came together quite by chance. They’re lonely creatures—they have to be. Misunderstood, too.’

This was indeed true. I’d owned mine for six months before the lingering suspicion that I might be eaten alive gave way to genuine affection.

The old man paused to give a coin to a beggar-lady collecting for the Troll Wars Widows, then added: ‘Are you waiting for something?’

‘I’m waiting for someone.’

‘Ah!’ he replied. ‘Me also.’ He sighed deeply and looked at his watch. ‘I wait for many years, but still Jennifer Strange does not appear.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I said with a start. ‘Who did you say you were waiting for?’

‘Jennifer Strange.’

‘But I’m Jennifer Strange!’

‘Then,’ replied the old man with the ghost of a smile, ‘my wait is over!’

By the time I had recovered from this shock, the old man had jumped to his feet and was walking swiftly along the pavement.

‘Quickly, quickly,’ he muttered. ‘I wondered when you were going to turn up!’

‘Who are you?’ I asked, somewhat perplexed. ‘And how in the world did you know my name?’

‘I,’ said the old man, stopping and turning so suddenly that I almost ran into him, ‘am Brian Spalding!’

‘The Dragonslayer?’

‘At your service.’

‘Then I must ask you—’ I began, but the old man interrupted me again and crossed the road in front of a bus that had to swerve to avoid him.

‘You’ve taken your time in getting here, young lady. I thought you would arrive when I was about sixty years of age to give me a bit of a retirement, but no—look here.’

He stopped and showed me his face, which was wrinkled and soft like a prune.

‘Look at me now! I am over a hundred and twelve!’

He strode towards the opposite pavement and waved his cane angrily at a taxi that had to do an emergency stop just inches from his shins.

‘Confound you, sir!’ he shouted at the cabby. ‘Driving like a madman!’

‘But how do you know my name?’ I asked again, still confused.

‘Simplicity itself,’ he replied. ‘The Mighty Shandar wrote a list of all the Dragonslayers that were to come, so the outgoing Dragonslayer would know the new apprentices and not employ some twerp who would bring dishonour to the craft. You were chosen for your calling over four centuries ago, my girl, and rightly or wrongly, you will take your vows.’

‘But my name’s not actually Jennifer Strange,’ I said, ‘I’m a foundling—I don’t know what my name is!’

‘It’s Jennifer Strange enough for the Mighty Shandar,’ he said cheerily.

‘I’m going to be a Dragonslayer?’

‘Goodness me, no!’ chuckled the old man. ‘You are to be an apprentice Dragonslayer.’

‘But I only started looking for you this morning—’

The old man stopped again and fixed me with his bright blue eyes.

‘Think of a huge feat of magic.’

I thought of moving Hereford’s cathedral two feet to the left.

I nodded.

‘Good. Then double it. Double it again, multiply by four and then double that. The answer is one tenth the size of the Old Magic involved here.’

‘But I’m not sure I want to be a Dragonslayer’s apprentice.’

‘Sometimes choice is a luxury that fate does not afford us, Miss Strange. We’re here.’

We had stopped outside a small house which was only one of many in a row of ordinary-looking terraced dwellings. The building had two large green garage doors and painted on the road outside was a faded yellow hatched box with the words ‘Dragonslayer, No Parking’ in large letters. The old man opened the front door and beckoned me in.

He turned on the lights and I looked around, amazed at what I saw. The room was large and airy and seemed to be living quarters and garage all rolled into one. At one side of the room was a kitchenette and living area with a large table, sofa and TV, and in the other half, parked in front of the double doors, was an old Rolls- Royce armoured car. The car was of heavy riveted construction and had emergency lights like a police car. Two twin-tone sirens were bolted to the turret and all over the vehicle were sharp copper spikes, protruding in every direction like a large metallic porcupine’s, and which reminded me of the armour that Dragonslayers and their steeds donned all those years ago.

‘A Rolls!’ I exclaimed.

‘It is never a Rolls, young lady,’ admonished the old man. ‘Neither is it a Roller. It is a Rolls-Royce, and don’t you forget it.’