The Last Dragonslayer

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Maltcassion is being framed. I was with the Dragon not two hours ago. This witness of yours wouldn’t last ten minutes in a court of law. The same burden of proof is required for a Dragon as it is for any other living creature.’

‘You’re becoming something of a pest,’ responded Detective Norton. ‘I’ve been a policeman for over twenty years. Who do you think did this if it wasn’t Maltcassion?’

‘Someone keen on getting the Dragonlands for themselves. King Snodd perhaps, or Brecon. Both of them have an interest in the lands.’

‘You’re crazy!’ he said, pointing a finger at me. ‘And what’s more, you’re dangerous. Accusing the King of complicity in murder? Have you any idea what could happen to you if I decided to make that public?’

He glared at me and I glared back.

‘C’mon,’ he said finally, ‘there’s another incident that I want you to see.’

He drove me ten miles towards Peterstow, where a field of cows had been torn literally limb from limb. It was not a pretty sight, and the flies were already buzzing happily in the heat.

‘Seventy-two heifers,’ announced Norton, ‘all dead. Talons, Miss Strange. Your friend Maltcassion. You have a duty to protect your charges and carry on your work. Maltcassion has gone loco in his old age. You must defend the realm.’

‘He didn’t do it.’

Norton rested his hand on my shoulder.

‘It doesn’t matter whether he did it or not, to be honest. All that matters is that there have been three separate incidents. You can check The Dragonslayer’s Manual if you want.’

I didn’t need to. He was right. As long as they had the hallmarks of Dragonattack, the three incidents was enough. These were the rules laid down by the Mighty Shandar four centuries ago and ratified by the Council of Dragons. Perhaps it was my destiny to kill Dragons; I was, after all, a Dragonslayer.

Sir Matt Grifflon

The door to the Dragonstation was open when I got back. There was no sign of Gordon. Instead, sitting at the kitchen table and reading through The Dragonslayer’s Manual was a striking-looking man with a lantern jaw and long flowing blond hair. He looked up at me and smiled his best smile as I entered, rising politely to his feet. I knew who he was well enough but pretended I didn’t.

‘What’s this?’ I asked him. ‘A Mr Handsome competition?’

‘My name is Sir Matt Grifflon,’ he said in a deep voice that set the teacups rattling in the corner cupboard. ‘His Gracious Majesty King Snodd IV has ordered me to personally oversee the Dragonkilling process in order that this whole sorry business can be brought to a successful conclusion as soon as possible. I have been given free rein over the manner in which this is done, and any order from me can be taken to have come from King Snodd himself.’

He was sickeningly full of self-confidence.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘what did you say your name was again?’

He glared at me.

‘I don’t think you fully appreciate the seriousness of the situation. The evidence is clear: Maltcassion is rogue and will be destroyed.’

‘Evidence can be faked.’

He held up The Dragonslayer’s Manual.

‘Faked or not, the rule of the Dragonpact is clear: three attacks and the Dragon must be destroyed. Proof is no longer a burden in this investigation, Miss Strange. If you do not have the stomach for the job, then step aside.’

He was right, of course. The rules were clear and I was bound by them.

‘I will do my duty.’

‘And kill the Dragon?’

‘If that is what my duty entails.’

‘Not good enough,’ he said, his voice rising.

‘No one can replace me unless I agree,’ I replied hotly.

‘Will you kill the Dragon? YES or NO?’

‘If the Dragon is rogue, I will do my duty.’

‘YES or NO!’

He was shouting at me now, and I was shouting back.

‘NO!’ I yelled as hard as I could. The knight fell silent.

‘I thought as much,’ said Grifflon in a normal tone of voice. ‘King Snodd feels that you have been beguiled by the charm of the beast and I agree with him. Action must be taken to remove you from your post. You have failed in your fundamental duties as a Dragonslayer and as a loyal citizen of Hereford.’

‘Listen, Grifflon,’ I said, purposefully not calling him ‘Sir’ because I knew it would annoy him, ‘why don’t you do yourself a favour and head on home? The only way you get this job is over my dead body.’

Grifflon was staring at me in a dangerous sort of way and I suddenly felt as though my last sentence was probably not the right thing to say.

‘You force my hand in this, Miss Strange,’ murmured Grifflon. ‘By your stubborn refusal to kill the Dragon. The first person to hold the sword after the violent death of a Dragonslayer is, by Dragonpact decree, the next in line.’

Sadly, this was true. It was Old Magic from the days of Mu’shad Waseed. If a Dragonslayer died a violent death anyone might take his place—all it required was to lay their hands on the hilt of Exhorbitus, the sword. Sir Matt Grifflon was smiling rather nastily at me and had taken a step closer. There was no weapon to hand and to be honest I probably would not have known how to protect myself if there had been.

‘Don’t make this too hard on yourself,’ he said, pulling a small dagger from his pocket. ‘If you stand still I can make it painless.’

He was between me and the door, and I was just thinking of leaping out of the window when a single word came to my rescue and stopped Grifflon in his tracks. It was a simple word. Short, to the point and quite unmistakable in its meaning. The word was Quark, and the Quarkbeast said it.

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast again, positioning himself defiantly between myself and Grifflon.

My outrageously handsome would-be assassin looked at the Quarkbeast nervously. It had its mouth open and was revolving its five canines in a menacing fashion.

‘Call him off, Miss Strange.’

‘And let you kill me? Just how stupid do you think I am?’

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, taking a step towards Grifflon, who backed away nervously.

‘You can’t hide behind a Quarkbeast for ever, Miss Strange.’

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ I told him. ‘After the premonition of Maltcassion’s death is proved wrong I won’t need to hide behind anything.’

He glared at me and ran quickly out of the door. The Quarkbeast sat on the rug and looked up at me with his large mauve eyes.

‘You did good,’ I told him. ‘Thank you.’

I looked out of the Dragonstation and into the street. The crowds that had been camped outside had vanished. I was no longer news now that the scent of war was in the air. On the street outside only Sir Matt’s squires were in attendance, doubtless to keep an eye on me in case I decided to make a run for it. I went back inside, locked the door and caught the mid-morning TV bulletin. King Snodd was giving a speech about how the Dragonlands were ‘historically part of Hereford’, and that the whole Kingdom had to act together to prevent the perfidious Duke of Brecon invading the country and threatening ‘all that we know and love’. I switched off the TV and went through to the kitchen, where I found a note from Gordon van Gordon. It read:

Dear Miss Strange,

I am sorry but I have been called away to look after my mother, who has gout. I wish you the very best on