The Last Dragonslayer

little Quark Jones was uglier than all of them put together.’

The two officers turned away, and as soon as I was opposite the broken-in front door of the Dragonstation I jumped inside and ran to the Rolls-Royce. The Slayermobile whispered into life, I engaged first gear and floored the accelerator. With a splintering of wood I drove through the locked garage doors, and pushed the Imperial Guard’s armoured car out of the way. I pulled the wheel over and accelerated up the street, the spang of rifle fire bouncing off the heavy iron plating. At the end of the street was a barricade of cars, manned by a group of policemen whose puny weapons could not hope to damage the heavily armoured Slayermobile. They jumped out of the way as the vehicle tore through their cars, the sharp spikes ripping the bodywork as though it were tissue paper.

Once I was out of the tight police cordon that had ringed the Old Town, I found quite a different scene awaiting me. The public, who had been told that a Dragonslayer—although not necessarily me—would be heading up to the Dragonlands that morning, had lined the route in eager expectation. An excited yell went up as the Slayermobile appeared and several hundred flags were waved in unison. Somewhere a brass band started up and garlands of flowers were thrown in the path of the Rolls-Royce. Sir Matt Grifflon had laid all this on for himself. He had thought, in his arrogance, that I would be caught and dispatched before morning.

I slowed down as the danger subsided. There was little that Grifflon or even King Snodd would dare try with all these potential witnesses about. As I drove past, the crowds broke ranks and followed the Slayermobile in one long procession. We were joined by the Guild of Master Builders, two marching bands and a contingent from the Troll Wars Veterans’ Association. TV cameras at every corner beamed my journey live to half a billion viewers worldwide. From China to Patagonia and from Hawaii to Vietnam, my progress was being eagerly watched.

Back to the Dragonlands

My journey unimpeded, I arrived at the Dragonlands an hour later and drove slowly through the parting crowd, felt the slight fizz as I passed through the marker stones, and then stopped the car. Safe at last, I climbed out of the Slayermobile as the news crews came as close as they dared to the boundary markers.

First on the scene was a MolluscNews film crew. The reporter, jostled from behind, made a short introduction to what would turn out to be the biggest news scoop of her career.

‘I am speaking live from the Kingdom of Snodd where we are about to witness the last round of a titanic struggle that began four hundred years ago with the Dragonpact, and finishes at twelve o’clock noon here high on a hill just outside the Kingdom of Hereford. A struggle that will finally see the Ununited Kingdoms rid of Dragons once and for all.’

She pointed the microphone at me.

‘A few words? We’re live.’

‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I began, ‘I am the last Dragonslayer. I have grave doubts over the claims of the supposed crimes but by the laws of the Dragonpact I am not permitted to refuse. I hope that one day you will all forgive me, although I know I shall never be able to afford myself the same privilege.’

The pressmen clamoured for more but I ignored them. I caught a glimpse of Sir Matt Grifflon staring at me with daggers in his eyes. He was standing next to a couple of Berserkers who were hitting each other with bricks in readiness for the battle. I gave them all a wan smile and drove away from the baying crowd. Once out of their sight I stopped the Rolls-Royce and climbed out. It was barely eleven o’clock; I had time to catch my breath.

‘You’re back,’ said a voice.

I knew who it was. I didn’t even bother turning around.

‘Hello, Shandar,’ I replied.

He was sitting on a rock.

‘You must not kill the Dragon,’ he said quite simply. ‘I order you not to kill the Dragon. You will regret it. The Dragonpact will be destroyed. The Dragons will be free to once again roam the land, killing and plundering, and the Ununited Kingdoms will collapse into a new dark age more evil and sinister than you can imagine. Humans, made slaves, will be ruled over by the Dragons, whose hearts are as black as the deepest cavern, their one wish the destruction of the human race.’

‘Is this another recording?’

‘I have placed this recording here as a warning against anyone trying to kill the last Dragon. Believe nothing that they say to you. They can lie in thought, deed and gesture. I repeat: return now and leave the Dragon alone.’

I was confused.

‘But by the terms of your decree, the Dragon is rogue and must be destroyed!’

The image twitched and went back to the beginning again.

‘You must not kill the Dragon,’ he said quite simply. ‘I order you not to kill the Dragon...’

I watched the speech again but the magic was old and weak and before I had heard the message three times Shandar was merely a voice on the wind. Naturally, I agreed with him, but was suspicious of his strong wish for me not to kill the last Dragon, when he had been paid twenty dray-weights of gold to do precisely that. Had I been beguiled by the Dragon? Did he have another agenda? Was I smart enough to see through the possible lies? Thoroughly confused, I set off into the Dragonlands.

I drove up a hill, followed the ridge for a little way and then descended into a beech forest. I had to steer the large Rolls-Royce very carefully among the tree stumps and fallen branches. Twice I had to back up and try a new way through, but soon the forest thinned out and I found myself looking out on to a large, flat meadow next to a stream. I drove across the short grass as grazing sheep moved lazily out of my way, and then crested a low rise and stopped, not believing what I could see.

I turned off the engine and stepped out on to the springy turf. Across the low valley was a sea of white tape that criss-crossed the untouched land, tied at intervals to pegs hammered into the ground. Someone was in the Dragonlands. Someone was already staking claims.

I heard a cheery whistling on the breeze and walked to the brow of a low hill, where I saw a small man wearing a brown suit and an unmistakable derby hat. It was Gordon van Gordon. He hadn’t been busy looking after his mother after all—he had been busy claiming as much of the Dragonlands as he could. He was, after all, my apprentice, and only a Dragonslayer or their apprentice may enter the Dragonlands. He was cheerfully banging claim stakes into the ground, and hadn’t noticed I was watching him.

‘Something you want to share, Gordon?’

He jumped as I spoke and looked up at me, but he didn’t seem too worried.

‘Not really.’

‘Let me see.’

He gave me one of the stakes he had been banging into the ground. There was an aluminium disc attached to each stake, and it was stamped with the name of the company Mr Trimble had been negotiating for earlier: The Consolidated Useful Stuff Land Development Corporation. Gordon had successfully claimed the land. The area enclosed within the named stakes legally belonged to ConStuff—or it would do, as soon as the Dragon was dead and the marker stones lost their power. Gordon had claimed a lot. As far as I could see there were marker tapes tied to stakes.

I shook my head sadly.

‘I trusted you, Gordon. Why all this?’

‘Sorry, Miss Strange, but this is strictly business. I like you as a person. You have many fine qualities that I admire. But you are out of time. You should have been born a century ago when values such as yours meant something.’

Gordon smiled. But it was a smile I hadn’t seen before. It was as though I was meeting a different person. The Gordon I knew, the friendly and helpful Dragonslayer’s apprentice, had never been real at all.

‘You had me fooled.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up over it,’ he said kindly, ‘we’ve been running Last Dragonslayer Drill for a number of