The Last Dragonslayer

‘Ah,’ said Moobin when he saw me, ‘it’s you. This is Mr Stamford, a lapsed sorcerer from Mercia. He’ll be staying with me for a few days. Mr Stamford, this is Jennifer Strange.’

Stamford was a sallow man with greasy hair. He peered at me cautiously and shook my hand.

‘You’re here because of the Dragondeath?’ I asked.

‘I think so,’ he replied after a moment’s thought. ‘You know that feeling when you go into a room and then can’t remember what it is you’re there for?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s exactly like that. I don’t know why I’m here, I just feel that I should be.’

And he fell silent.

‘He’s the third to arrive since this morning,’ said Wizard Moobin. He paused for a moment. ‘Tiger Prawns was out of order doing what he did, you know.’

‘I know. He was doing it to stop me resigning.’

‘It was noble, I grant you that. We respect honour. Sadly, Lady Mawgon doesn’t. She wanted to have you both replaced and asked Mother Zenobia to send a shortlist of new foundlings so we could start interviewing.’

‘That’s not how it works.’

‘It’s how Lady Mawgon works.’

‘What happened?’

‘Mother Zenobia told her they’d run out.’

I smiled. Mother Zenobia had hundreds of foundlings, but she was supporting Tiger and myself by telling Lady Mawgon there weren’t any. It must have made Mawgon even more angry.

‘So what’s she doing now?’

‘Lady Mawgon? Marching around the corridors gnashing her teeth, I expect. If ever there was a time to go and hide, this might be it.’

It seemed a good time to tell Moobin what had happened. He was, after all, the sorcerer I got on best with, and Mr Zambini’s successor, if there was one.

‘I’m the last Dragonslayer.’

‘Yes,’ said Moobin, ‘I saw it on the news. You’re no longer a bystander, Jennifer, you’re a player.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but how?’

Moobin took out his Shandarmeter and turned it on. I looked over his shoulder as the small needle bobbed against the scale.

‘The background wizidrical radiation has risen almost tenfold since yesterday,’ he mused. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ I asked Brother Stamford. ‘Like moths to a light?’

Stamford answered by firing a shimmering globe from his fingertip that buzzed round the room before vanishing.

‘I couldn’t do that yesterday,’ he announced. ‘You may joke about Big Magic, but it’s real and it’s true and it’s going to happen very soon.’

‘But what is it?’ I asked.

They both looked at one another. Wizard Moobin was the one who answered.

‘There was a time before magic, and there will be a time when magic has gone. In between those times the power of magic will ebb and flow like the tide. But like it or not there will come a day when the tide will recede and never return—the power of magic will vanish for ever.’

‘But that’s unthinkable!’

‘It’s not all bad. There is always an opportunity to rekindle that spark and bring the tide of power back into flood—and with the flood bring on renewal. Renewal of the power of magic.’

‘And that opportunity is Big Magic?’ I asked.

‘A chance to recharge the batteries, so to speak. But at times of low power, sorcerers are less likely to see the signs of a Big Magic. We never know when it will be, or what form it will take. The last time Big Magic took place was two hundred and thirty years ago, with the appearance of the star Aleutius in the evening sky. If Brother Thassos of Crete had not seen it for the sign it was, magic might have vanished for good.’

‘But where does magic come from?’ I asked. ‘And where does it go?’

‘Explaining magic is like explaining lightning or rainbows a thousand years ago; inexplicable and wonderful but seemingly impossible. Today they are little more than equations in a science textbook. Magic is the fifth fundamental force, and even more mysterious than gravity, which is really saying something. Magic is a power lurking in all of us, an emotional energy that can be used to move objects and manipulate matter. But it doesn’t follow any physical laws that we can, as yet, understand; it exists only in our hearts and minds.’

‘And the Dragonlands? What do they have to do with it?’

‘I wish we knew. But one thing is crucial. With the way that the power of magic has been deteriorating over the past fifty years, this happening—whatever it is—might be the last chance to regather the power before it goes completely.’

‘What are the chances it will happen?’

‘A renewal is a risky undertaking. Chances are twenty per cent, at best.’

And on that note, Moobin returned to his tidying, and I wandered up to my room. My window faced west and I watched the deep orange sun sink slowly behind the marzipan refinery at Sugwas, the heat from the refinery’s gas flares making the air wobble and distorting the image. I sat down on the bed.

‘Do you want some pizza, Tiger?’

‘Yes, please,’ came a small voice from inside the cupboard. It seemed Tiger still wasn’t happy sleeping on his own. ‘Hey,’ he added, ‘is this a Matt Grifflon poster you’ve hidden in here?’

‘I’m looking after it for a friend,’ I said hurriedly.

‘Right.’

His Majesty King Snodd IV

I left Zambini Towers at midnight and spent the rest of the night at the Dragonslayer’s apartment. The crowds of press hadn’t gone by the morning, and pretty soon I had to leave the phone off the hook after two radio stations, the lifestyles section ofThe Daily Mollusc, the features editor of The Clam and a representative from Fizzi-Pop all called me within the space of forty-seven seconds. All was not bad news, however. Gordon had excelled himself at breakfast, and I was soon tucking into a massive stack of pancakes. I was just reading in the paper about a border skirmish between the Kingdom of Hereford and the Duke of Brecon when there was a knock at the door.

‘If it’s that idiot from Yummy-Flakes tell him I’m dead,’ I said, not looking up from the newspaper. It wasn’t the Yummy-Flakes man. It wasn’t even the theme park guy. It was a royal footman in full livery who ignored Gordon and approached me at the breakfast table. He had a pomaded wig, scarlet tunic and breeches. His shirt had deep frilly cuffs and his starched collar was so stiff he could barely move his head.

‘Miss Strange?’ he asked in a thin voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Dragonslayer?’

‘Yes, yes?’

‘I am commanded by His Majesty King Snodd to convey you to the castle.’

‘The castle? Me? You’re joking!’

The footman looked at me coldly.

‘The King doesn’t make jokes, Miss Strange. On the rare occasion that he does he circulates a memo beforehand to avoid any misunderstandings. He has sent his own car.’

The footman and chauffeur didn’t say a word as we drove out of Hereford towards Snodd Hill, traditionally the place of residence of the Monarch of Hereford since the Dragonpact, as it nestled comfortably—and strategically—against the eastern edge of the Dragonland and was thus completely free from attack in at least one