by Mark Hayden
In their Wyrm stage, a Dragon moves on its back legs, using its tail for balance, as I saw when she lifted herself to her full height and jogged forwards. I scrambled my brain, trying to get a handle on her size, and I did so when she passed the Volvo. Four metres at the shoulder. That’s huge. Think African elephant. Think slow and lumbering, then add magick. Welshfire was as fast on her two legs as a T-Rex must have been, and no doubt twice as graceful.
She emerged from the compound, head swinging, and I thought she was looking for Rhein. I half expected the Druid to emerge from his hiding place and bring down the Wyrm where she stood, but no, he left her alone for now.
She flapped her wing-arms again and moved forward more slowly until she came to the stream. Can Dragons cross water? Is it damaging to them? No. She dropped her head into the stream and drank. She drank deeply, lifting her head a few times to shake water off her eyes then returning to the water. When she’d finally finished, she sat back on her haunches and folded her little arms on her chest. She was looking, sniffing and listening, but she was doing something else, too, and the answer came to me a moment before she proved me right.
Her abdomen had been pulsating while she sat still. Something had been going on inside her. Something that involved a lot of water. I thought of the night I’d snared Vicky into working for me at Club Justine, the night she’d given my first lesson in magick. She’d taken a lighter filled with water and made it flame by loosening the covalent bonds in the water molecules.
Welshfire was doing the same, but on an industrial scale, and when she’d finished, she reared up on her back legs and used those chest muscles to blow a stream of fire that scorched the opposite bank black in seconds. Liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen are what they use to power rockets.
The sweat running down my back went colder than the valley stream. Rhein was going to let Welshfire escape from this occulted valley and start eating any sheep, cow or farmer that got in her way. Then he was going to hunt her. Suddenly, in the absence of a thermonuclear warhead, Plan B was the only option.
Satisfied with her jets of fire, the Wyrm sniffed the air again, and started to move up the valley, towards the moors. Once she left the valley, there would be plenty of sheep to feed on up there, as she could no doubt smell.
I struggled out of my waterproof coat, jumped down the Druid’s Mound and jogged along the Ley line until I got to the marshy depression. I splashed my way through the boggy puddles to where grass reasserted itself and looked up the valley. Welshfire was already almost out of sight.
I gripped my dowsing rod and tried to tease some Lux out of the line. I didn’t want to plant it yet, but I needed a boost. As the Wyrm’s tail disappeared round a bend in the hill, I got enough juice to amplify the signal and I activated Moley’s Badge of Office.
The whole valley was suddenly filled with the essence of Mole, the gagging smell and the thump of paws under the ground, the feel of rock and the sheer Moleish arrogance that says This is mine. Stay away.
Welshfire is not mature. She’s a teenager, and no teenage Dragon with attitude is going to put up with a direct challenge like the one Moley had just issued from beyond the grave. I held my breath for an age, until the Wyrm came running back down the valley, moving her head from side to side and trying to get a bead on Mr Mole.
More Lux flowed and I used Moley’s badge again. Welshfire changed course and vaulted the swollen stream, heading straight for me. A blue and black figure detached itself from the rock behind her and gave chase. Good.
I drove my yew rod into the soft grass, right through the Ley line. I kept pushing until only an inch of wood remained above ground, and I put all my magick into making my dowsing rod a dam, as well as roughing up the Ley line to make it leak around the edges. When I stepped back, Lux and electricity were both starting to pool in the water around me.
Welshfire was nearly on me, and raising her head to roast my sorry carcase. I had one chance to save my life.
‘Croeso mewn heddwch,’ I shouted, sticking both arms high in the air. It was the only thing I’d learnt from Harry – Welcome in Peace. Somehow, I didn’t think Myfanwy would have spoken to the Hatchling in English.
The Wyrm slowed her pace and held her fire. I kept backing away, stumbling and tripping over the rush-bearing tussocks. She moved beyond the buried yew rod, and little blue sparks shot from her claws. Welshfire was now far too close to me, and I was far too far from the Druid’s Mound for this to end happily. The great jaws opened, the chest flexed and a jet of flame shot out. I cringed. I curled myself into a ball and dropped. Wouldn’t you?
The flame had been aimed well over my head, a warning shot for me to stop moving. I stood up, soaked through now that I had no coat to protect me. The Wyrm looked at me and sucked in its cheeks, then the mighty lungs spoke with the power of a cathedral organ and her words echoed round the valley. ‘BLE MAE’R FERCH!’
I cringed again, and used the cringe as a cover to take a couple more paces back. Welshfire stepped forwards. ‘I speak no Welsh!’ I tried.
She lowered her head towards me, and I saw the intelligence in her eyes. ‘Ble mae Gwenhwfar?’
That sounded like … ‘Guinevere?’ I said.
She rumbled, down in her chest. Yes. What did Welshfire want with Surwen’s daughter/son?
A blue light licked up from the marsh to her wing-arms. If I stood here, I wouldn’t have long to live – it was just a question of whether death came from above or from the Dragon.
Or from the spear.
A flash of blue to my left, and I dropped flat. Rhein launched himself at where I’d been standing and the Dragonspear flashed through empty air. Before I could move, he went for the killing thrust.
Welshfire roared. She smelled the Dragonspear and blew fire down on Rhein. And me.
He raised his shield, and the flames parted round it. When the flames had stopped, his shield was smoking gently. If it continued, this might not be such a one sided fight after all. I took my chance to stagger away from Rhein and get another metre closer to the Druid’s Mound.
The Dragon had seen Rhein try to kill me, and she knew that Rhein was her enemy. For the moment, I was reclassified as neutral to Welshfire, so I escaped a personal scorching. What I hadn’t anticipated was her resources, or lack of them. She plunged her snout into the biggest puddle and sucked up water. Oh.
Rhein was not so easily distracted. He held his shield to deflect any flames, and came for me with the spear. I had no machete this time, and no trees to hide behind. I glanced over my shoulder and memorised the driest routes to the Mound, then turned to face him.
‘What does Welshfire want with Gwen?’ I shouted.
‘She was promised. We were going to use Gwen for the Blasu Diwethaf until you kidnapped her.’
‘Did Surwen know about that?’
‘She’d have come round after we’d done it. She could have concentrated on worthwhile stuff with that freak out of the way.’ He grinned at me, and said something very smooth in Welsh.
‘Was that supposed to be the last thing I heard?’ I replied. ‘Well, tough shit. I’m not going to be killed by a fucking gay Smurf. I’d rather get roasted. Watch your back, blue boy.’
I dodged to the left, and Rhein would have had to turn his back on Welshfire to attack me. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the Dragon was ready to burn again. He spun round to face his enemy, and I spun round to run for my life.
I put everything into that run. Every ounce of willpower, energy and hope. At this point it was mostly hope and willpower. Behind me, I heard flames and I heard Welsh. A waft of hot air washed over me. I got to the bottom of the Mound, and was only six paces from safety when Rhein raised his spear and completed the circuit.
From a clear blue sky came death. The cirrus anvil that had topped the storm was over twenty miles away, but its hugely positive roiling mass of charged particles sniffed out the negative pool of electricity behind me. When Rhein raised his spear, a streamer of elec
trons rose up to welcome the positive leader poking down from the cloud. Boom.
A few hundred million volts flew between them. I was saved from the strike because the Druid’s Mound had become positively charged after I’d stuck my yew rod in the ground. I was saved from the strike, but nothing could save me from Welshfire.
The Dragon exploded. All those gases inside her were ignited by the lightning, and the strike added its own blast. Together, they lifted me up the rise and into the circle. If I’d hit a stone, I’d have been Conrad paste. Instead, I burst into flames.
Harry’s blessing saved me. In the wash after the blast, I heard the blessing he’d pronounced over the yew branch, and the stones held their peace. I was no longer being cooked from the inside out, but my clothes were still burning. I found the last bit of oxygen in my thigh muscles, crossed the ring in three strides, and launched myself off the other side.
I flopped on to the slope and rolled the last two metres into a puddle. The flames were snuffed out and cold bog water soothed my skin.
It was over. I was alive. Vicky was alive. The sheep of Brecon could safely graze on their hills, and their shepherds could sleep easily in their beds.
I stood up and checked myself for damage. There were some ugly red patches where blazing fabric had touched my skin, but eyes, ears and head seemed in working order. I touched my scalp. Ouch. All my hair had burnt off. Ah well.
I squelched round the Mound, giving the stones a wide berth and making a quick dash to grab my coat and rucksack. I dumped them on the quad bike and surveyed the scene of battle. In the centre, lightning had scarred and burnt the grass over a wide area. Scattered bits of white and brown might be Rhein or his weapons. The energy in that strike had boiled him like a microwave and blown bits of him everywhere.
Welshfire was gone. Completely gone as if she’d never existed. I peered in the long grass, looking for evidence. I found a claw and was bending to pick it up when the (scorched) back of my neck prickled. Not safe. I don’t know why, but I left the claw where it was and drove back down the track of the Ley line. The final casualty of the strike had been my yew rod, and Lux now flowed slowly towards the farmhouse.
I made it to the kitchen, put on the fan heater, boiled the kettle and stripped off my soaked, singed and stinking clothes. Rhein was shorter than me, but until I could be bothered to get down to Myfanwy’s car and retrieve my overnight bag, his jeans and sweater would do just fine.
Reluctantly, I put my own boots back on and pottered with a proper tea tray. I’d seen a small bench outside the farmhouse that would capture the last five minutes of sunshine, and I was going to have a moment. I didn’t notice that I’d put two mugs on the tray until a cloaked figure came walking up the path.
I struggled to my feet. ‘Allfather. An honour.’ I bowed and paused. ‘Do you drink tea?’
He lowered his hood. Today, Odin was channelling a US Army general. I think. He was beardless, his pure white hair razored short and his one blue eye had a flinty edge to it. ‘Thank you. May I sit?’
I put the tray on the flags and poured two teas. He declined sugar with a shake of his head. I was acutely conscious that he was bestowing a great favour on me by doing this, and waited nervously to see what he wanted. If I’d had any more energy, I’d have got up off that bench and put a respectful distance between us.
He took a sip and put down the mug. ‘There’s a vacancy for God of Thunder, if you’re interested.’
‘Erm…’
He smiled with one side of his mouth. The same side as the eye patch. ‘Perhaps not. You’re a bit too old.’ He turned his head to the north. I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel the currents of memory stirring around him. ‘My son went into legend as an idiot, all arm and no brain. He was young, that’s all. He never got a proper chance to grow up.’ He turned back to me. ‘What happened over there, beyond the stream.’
‘Don’t you…?’
He shook his head. ‘Where there is no perch for the raven, he sees nothing. I saw you, a Wyrm and the Hunter go in. I saw the lightning and I saw you come out.’
I rubbed my chin. ‘Is that because of the Druid’s Mound?’
‘Is that the name you gave it? It’s as good as any, but the true name – in Germanic – is Bardsholm. It’s been there for millennia but fell out of use until I saw Adaryn lead the funeral procession for Owain the Bard across that stream. This settlement was his home.’
I mulled that over. Like all the Creatures of Light (including Vicky), the Allfather was stingy when it came to information. He was letting me know something important, and expected knowledge in return. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked, flashing my nearly empty cigarette packet. He shook his head, and I told him the story from the moment we’d crossed the Tawe until I landed in the pool. He asked more questions about the Bardsholm than anything else, and at the end I had one question of my own.
‘Did you have a hand in the lightning?’
‘Still worried about free will, Conrad?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘Not me. What you did in there was legendary. Literally. There will be stories told about that encounter for a long time. Such a struggle sends waves all through the Sympathetic Echo, as they call it in Salomon’s House. I would say that it shakes the roots of Yggdrasil.’
He picked up the stone cold mug of tea and blew on it. Steam rose up. Neat. He took a deep swallow and adjusted his cloak. ‘The aftershock has given me a tiny window to visit you here, and to take on flesh to share your hospitality. It took me a generation to get an opening to visit you at Elvenham so that I could Enhance your powers last Yuletide. My scope to engage in the material world is very, very limited. Your will is as free as mine.’
He smiled on the last line, and I understood his ambiguity. ‘Thank you, Allfather.’
‘There are gods,’ he said, ‘who would have punished you for hubris. Calling down a positive lightning strike, they would say, is not for mortals. I say well done. In fact, I don’t think I could have done it better myself.’ He replaced his mug prior to taking his leave.
Before he could stand up, I said, ‘Forgive me, but could I ask you advice on a matter of … justice? Protocol?’
He stood up and swept his cloak out of the way. ‘Of course you can ask.’
I told him about the Usk View Hotel, and the owner’s betrayal of us to Adaryn.
He nodded, and his brow furrowed for a second. ‘You are right. Such a breach of hospitality cannot be left unpunished.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Would roasting her over her own fire and serving slices to her children be too much?’
‘A tad disproportionate, possibly.’
He bent down to whisper something in my ear. When he’d said his piece, he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I may be with you again soon. If Victoria Robson consents.’
Victoria? Oh. Vicky. The touch of his hand on my shoulder spread warmth down my back, running all the way to my left leg. When he pulled up his hood, all the pain from the burn down there was gone.
‘Farewell and thank you,’ I said.
‘You honour me. Go well, Conrad.’
I bowed low, and when I looked up, he was gone. I touched the back of my head. Ouch. For one fleeting moment, I thought he might have cured my bald patch. Oh well.
The last rays of the sun had disappeared behind the distant Black Mountain when I drove the Volvo down to Myfanwy’s car and got changed properly. It was weird knowing that no one was around for miles, and I wanted to get a move on, so I just stripped naked outside the old cottage and put on lots of warm layers.
The drive back to the main road was a slow one, just in case of ambush. When I came to the junction, I found Surwen’s white Mercedes facing me. I stuck my hand out of the window and waved, then pulled up next to it, driver’s window to driver’s window.
‘Thank all the gods you’re OK,’ said Helen.
‘Battered but alive. See?’ I lowered my head for her to see the burns. ‘That’s the worst, thank goodness.
How’s Vicky?’
‘Serious but stable, according to the last update. I got a patrol car to come up here and wait with me, and when Myfanwy appeared with Vicky in tow, I put them both in Jonesy’s car and he didn’t need me to tell him to put the blues and twos on. Vicky’s heart stopped again, just outside A&E, apparently. She’d have been dead for sure if we’d waited for an ambulance.’
I let out the drop of breath I’d been holding since Adaryn had pulled the cardiac arrest stunt. ‘Thank you, Helen. I owe you.’
‘Do you want directions to the hospital?’
I shook my head. ‘She’s in the best place. My role is to finish the job here. Do we have an ETA on the Watch Captains?’
‘Forty five minutes. Do you want to come in here? I’ve got food.’ She waggled a wide mouth Thermos and Tupperware.
‘Helen Davies, why are you married to someone else?’
‘That’s what all the boys say. Come on over.’
27 — Eat, Drink and be Merry
I didn’t get to see my partner until Friday afternoon, what with one thing and another. Helen pulled rank on the hospital to get constant updates, and with Vicky being in the ICU until Friday lunchtime, and her parents arriving, I judged it best to wait. I was also quite busy myself.
The first hurdle to seeing Vicky was the locked door of the Coronary Care Ward. I pressed the buzzer and said that I was there to see Vicky Robson.
‘Police and designated family only,’ said a tired Welsh voice.
I took a wild guess and said, ‘I’m Uncle Conrad.’
‘Oh. Okay. You’re on the list. Hang on.’
She buzzed me in and told me that Vicky was in the isolation room at the end of the corridor. ‘She’s not infectious nor nothing,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s just that the armed officer is rather distressing to the other patients. I think the consultant is with her just now, if you want to wait in the family room with…’ She looked at me properly for the first time, and couldn’t see how I could be related to any of the Robsons. ‘…with Vicky’s parents,’ she finished, rather lamely. ‘Just over there.’