The Last Dragonslayer

‘Sorry.’

‘Times have moved on a bit, you know,’ he went on. ‘I started with a horse but changed to the Rolls-Royce when they demolished the stables to make way for the shopping precinct. I’ve never used it although it remains in tip-top mechanical condition.’

I followed the old man over to the far wall, upon which hung a long lance, whose sharpened tip glistened dangerously, and on a table beneath it lay an exquisite sword whose long blade ended in a large hilt, bound with leather and adorned with a ruby the size of an orange.

‘Exhorbitus,’ said the old man in a soft, reverential voice. ‘The sword of a Dragonslayer. Only a Dragonslayer or his apprentice may touch it. One finger of an unauthorised hand and “Voof!”’

‘Voof?’ I queried.

‘Voof,’ repeated the old man.

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, who understood something important when he heard it.

‘Someone tried to steal it once,’ continued the Dragonslayer. ‘Broke in at the back. Touched the ruby and was carbonised in less time than it takes to wink.’

I withdrew my hands quickly and the old man smiled.

‘Watch this,’ he said, picking up the sword with a deftness that belied his old age. He swished it about elegantly and then made a swipe in the direction of a chair. I thought he had missed, but he hadn’t. He prodded at the chair and it fell into two pieces, neatly cleaved by the keen blade.

‘Impressive?’

I nodded.

‘It’s power-assisted,’ he explained. ‘I’d never be able to heft it at my age. If you thought that was cool, watch this.’

He laid the point of the sword on the concrete floor and leaned gently on the hilt. The blade sank slowly into the hard floor as though it were mud. When it was embedded a good ten centimetres the old man stopped pushing. It stood upright in the floor, humming gently to itself and still sinking—carried by its own weight as it cut through the concrete.

‘As sharp as nothing else on this earth. It will cut through carbide steel as though it were a wet paper bag.’

‘Why is it called Exhorbitus?’

‘Probably because it was very expensive.’

He withdrew Exhorbitus from the floor and replaced it on the desk while I looked around. All over the walls were lurid paintings of Dragons showing how they attacked, how they drank, how they fed and the best way to sneak up on them.

I pointed to a large oil painting of an armoured Dragonslayer doing battle with a flame-breathing Dragon. It was quite graphic and very exciting. You could almost sense the heat and the danger, the sharpness of the talons and the clanking of armour.

‘You?’

The old man laughed.

‘Dear me, no! That painting is of Augustus of Delft doing battle with Janus during Mu’shad Waseed’s failed Dragon campaign. He was doing frightfully well right up until the moment he was sliced into eight more or less equal parts.’

He turned to me more seriously.

‘I’ve been the Dragonslayer for seventy-two years. I’ve not even seen a Dragon, let alone killed one. The last person foolish enough to actually launch an attack was Belinda of Froxfield just before the Mighty Shandar finalised the Dragonpact. Since then there has been only one living Dragonslayer down the ages—seven since Belinda—and none of us has ever so much as set foot inside a Dragonland. But that’s not to say we don’t know a thing or two about Dragons.’

He tapped his head.

‘All the knowledge since the first Dragonslayer went to do battle is up here. Every plan, every attack, every outcome, every failure. All this information has been here ready and waiting just in case. But it has never been needed! Not one Dragon has ever transgressed the Dragonpact. Not one single burnt village, one stolen cow or an eaten farmer. I’m sure you’ll agree that the Mighty Shandar has done a pretty good job.’

‘But that’s all changed.’

His face fell.

‘Indeed. Events, I fear, are soon to come to fruition. There is a prophecy in the air. It’s like cordite and paraffin. Can you smell it?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Must be the drains, then. The pre-cogs say I am to kill the last Dragon, and I will not falter in the face of my destiny. Shortly I am to do battle with Maltcassion, but I cannot do it alone. I need an apprentice. That person is you.’

‘But he is the last of the Dragons!’ I cried, feeling exasperated at Mr Spalding’s lack of interest. ‘Such a noble beast should not go the way of the Buzonji or the Lesser Shridloo—’

‘My child,’ said the old man, dabbing his mouth with a spotted handkerchief, ‘the Dragon’s time is over. Even the dullest of seers can’t help but hear the premonition of the Dragon’s death. It’s being transmitted on the low-alpha; I’m surprised the dogs can’t hear it. Next Sunday at noon I’m to go and destroy him, and you must help me prepare.’

‘But there’s no reason for you to go up there,’ I pointed out. ‘He has not transgressed the Dragonpact in any way.’

The Dragonslayer shrugged.

‘There are still four days left; much can and will happen. This is bigger than me and bigger than you. Whether we like it or not, we will play our parts. Few of us understand the reason we are placed here; be grateful that you have so clear an objective.’

I digested his words slowly. I still did not hold that the Dragon had to die, nor that premonitions are certain to come true. But on the other hand it struck me that the Dragonslayer’s apprentice might be well placed to ensure the Dragon’s survival. If I was to be anything other than a passive observer in the next few days I was going to have to move fast.

‘How do I become your apprentice?’

‘I was beginning to think you’d never ask,’ he replied, looking at the clock nervously. ‘It usually takes ten years of study, commitment, deep learning and the attainment of a spiritual understanding of oneness worthy of a Dragonslayer’s apprentice, but since we are in a bit of a hurry I can give you the accelerated course.’

‘And how long does that take?’

‘About a minute. Place your hand on this book.’

He had taken a battered volume from a small cupboard and held it out to me. Etched in faded gold upon the cover was: The Dragonslayer’s Manual. I placed my hand on the worn leather and felt a feeling like electricity tremble in my fingers, run up my arm and tingle along my spine. As I closed my eyes images of battle entered my head, memories of Dragonslayers long dead, passing on their wisdom of centuries to me. I could see the Dragons in front of me, their faces, their ways, their habits; I felt the beat of a wing and heard the whoosh of fire as a Dragon set fire to a village. I was upon a horse, galloping across a grassy plain, a Dragon bellowing a fearful yell and igniting an oak tree, which burst into fire like a bomb. Then I was in an underground cavern, listening to a Dragon telling me stories of long ago, of a home far from here, a land with three moons and a violet sky. He spoke of a hope that humans and Dragons could live together, of old things passing away and a new life without strife. Then we were on the coast, running along the beach with a Dragon splashing beyond the surf line. I could see the images, and smell them and almost taste them... when, abruptly, it all stopped.

‘Time’s up!’ said the old man, grinning. ‘Did you get it all?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Then answer me this: who was the second Dragonslayer?’

‘Octavius of Dewchurch,’ I said without thinking.

‘And the name of the last horse in my service?’