The Last Dragonslayer

definitely be on the inside. Bones in the middle? Whoever designed you was having a serious off day.’

I thought about this for a moment as Maltcassion continued:

‘Pretty daft, wouldn’t you agree? If I was looking for a transfer I’d be going towards the crustaceans; the crabs, lobsters, shrimps and so forth. Put it this way: if you lost a limb, would it grow back?’

‘No.’

‘Mine neither, but if we were a member of the crustacean family we could expect a new limb the following year. Mind you, if we’re talking about regeneration we could go a step farther and take a leaf out of the sponge book. There are sponges you can chop to pieces, whizz up in the blender and then press through a sieve, and they’ll still regenerate.’

‘Useful, maybe,’ I replied, ‘but I think there is a limit to the amount of fun you could have as a sponge.’

‘I think you have something there,’ conceded the Dragon. ‘I’m not sure that crabs and lobsters are exactly funsters either. I was once told a joke by a crab and it was really dire; something about two shrimps going on holiday and one leaves his case on the train—I forget the details.’

‘I never thought about crabs having a sense of humour.’

‘Well, they do. You wouldn’t walk sideways for any other reason, would you?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Lobsters are more serious and cultured. Hermit crabs don’t say much but think a great deal. Horseshoe crabs are frankly a bit dim, but shrimps and prawns, well, they just love to party.’

‘You seem to know a lot about animals.’

‘I’m always surprised that you lot don’t take more interest in other creatures. It’s like living in a street and not knowing your next-door neighbour. If I were human I’d start investing in a little kindness. When the arthropods rule the planet all those lobster dishes and crab sticks could well be a cause of some regret. The Blessed Ladies of the Lobster might be a figure of fun right now, but in 1.8 billion years’ time, during the Rise of the Lobsters, everyone will be clamouring to join.’

‘I don’t think mammals are on the way out, Maltcassion.’

‘That’s what the giant reptiles said. What are they now? Birds. One moment you’re tearing a Stegosaurus to bits with rows of razor-sharp fangs, next thing your name’s Joey and you’re sharing a cage with a bell, a ladder and a dried cuttlefish. Bit of a come-down for a mighty thunder lizard, don’t you think?’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Well, Darwin got it very nearly completely right. A remarkable brain for a human. But he overlooked one thing. Natural selection is also governed by a sense of humour.’

‘I’m not sure I’m quite with you.’

‘Well, you’ve heard the phrase “Nature abhors a vacuum”?’

I nodded.

‘Well, I would add to that: “Nature adores a joke”. You would see it yourself if only your lifespan were long enough. Over ninety million years ago there was a small, brightly coloured beetle named a Sklhrrg beetle. It was beautiful. I mean really beautiful. Even the most brainless toad would stop and gaze adoringly. It strutted around the forest, preening and primping itself, being admired by all. A few thousand years of this and it had evolved into one of the most vain and obnoxious creatures you could possibly meet. It was all “me, me, me”. Other beetles avoided it, and party invitations simply dried up. But as I said, nature adores a joke. Ninety million years later and what has it evolved into?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The dung beetle. Dull coloured and innocuous, it pushes dung around. Lives in it, eats it, lays its eggs in it. Don’t tell me nature doesn’t enjoy a good joke!’

Maltcassion grunted out a short burst of fire that I took to be a laugh, then muttered something about chameleons telling jokes in colours before he settled down, shut his eyes and presently started to snore. Since he didn’t specifically say I wasn’t to return, I supposed he wouldn’t mind me coming back, so I stared at the heap of rubble for a while, delighted at my good fortune so far. His tattered wing led me to suppose that he couldn’t fly, and if that was the case I couldn’t see him actually getting out to break the Dragonpact. I waited until I was sure he was truly asleep, then crept from the clearing and retraced my steps back towards the marker stones and the Rolls-Royce.

As I walked over the last rise I was surprised to see that a large group of people had gathered at the spot where I had entered the Dragonlands six hours previously. The potential claimants had alerted the press and TV stations; the last Dragonslayer was news indeed. I walked down to the marker stones and stepped through the force-field as the crowd nervously eased back.

‘Auster Old-Spott ofThe Daily Whelk,’ said one man in a shabby suit. ‘Can I ask your name?’ He thrust a microphone in my face as another equally shabby newsman said:

‘Paul Tamworth of The Clam. Have you seen Maltcassion?’

‘When do you expect to kill the Dragon?’ asked a third.

‘How did you get to be a Dragonslayer?’ asked another. A man in a suit elbowed his way through the crowd and showed me a contract. ‘My name is Oscar Pooch,’ he announced, ‘I represent Yummy-Flakes breakfast cereals and I’d like you to endorse our product. Ten thousand moolah a year. Do we agree? Sign here please.’

‘Don’t listen to him!’ said another man in a pinstripe suit. ‘Our company will offer you twenty thousand moolah for exclusive rights to represent Fizzi-Pop soft drinks. Sign here—!’

‘Wait!’ I shouted.

The whole crowd went silent. All one hundred, two hundred, I don’t know how many there were, but there were a lot. The cameramen from the TV stations trained their cameras on me, waiting for whatever I had to say.

‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I began, to the sound of frantic scribbling from the newspapermen’s pens. ‘I am the new Dragonslayer. Charged by the Mighty Shandar himself, I will uphold the rules of the Dragonpact and protect the people from the Dragon, and the Dragon from the people. I will issue a full statement in due course. That is all.’

I was impressed by the speech, but then I had been bound to pick up a thing or two during Brian Spalding’s one-minute accelerated Dragonslaying course. I retrieved the Rolls-Royce and headed back into town, the crush of journalists and photographers following me as best as they could. Brian Spalding had never alerted me to this sort of media attention, although the sound of twenty thousand moolah just to endorse Fizzi-Pop sounded like some very easy money indeed.

Gordon van Gordon

I returned to the Dragonslayer’s office to find the whole street crowded with even more journalists, TV crews and onlookers. The police had thoughtfully closed the road, erected barriers and kept the public to the far side of the street. I parked outside and jumped out of the Slayermobile to the rattle of cameras and popping of flashbulbs. I ignored them. I was more concerned with a small man dressed in a brown suit and wearing a matching derby hat. He was aged about forty and tipped his hat respectfully as I placed the key in the lock.

‘Miss Strange?’ enquired the small man. ‘I’ve come about the job.’

‘Job?’ I asked. ‘What job?’

‘Why, the job as apprentice Dragonslayer, of course.’

He waved a copy of the Hereford Daily Eyestrain at me.

‘On the Situations Vacant page. “Wanted—”’

‘Let me see.’

I took the paper and, sure enough, there it was in black and white: ‘Wanted, Dragonslayer’s apprentice. Must be discreet, valiant and trustworthy. Apply in person to number 12, Slayer’s Way.’

‘I don’t need an assistant,’ I told him.

‘Everyone needs an assistant,’ said the small man in a jovial tone. ‘A Dragonslayer more than anyone. To deal with the mail, if nothing else.’