The Dragon Charmer

by Jan Siegel

  He sprang back, tugging furiously at the unwieldy slab. Adrenaline pumped into dehydrated muscle: the stone creaked over just in time. Even so, there was still a sliver of space remaining as he threw himself to the ground. A thin jet of flame shot through the crack with the force of a blowtorch, reaching the high ceiling and hissing against the vault. After a moment or two it sank to a flicker and retreated back into the well. Will saw the stonework blackened, noticing other evidence of charring in the vicinity. He found he was shaking and a sweat had broken out all over his body. He sat for a long while until the tremors abated, cursing himself for his weakness.

  “At least I know why the lock is there,” he reflected aloud, striving for a pragmatic approach, for a note of bravado or flippancy, though there was no one else to hear. “All I have to do is open it.”

  Since there was no other way out, he climbed back up the steps to the door.

  Once before he had lifted a window latch with the aid of a kitchen knife. Will knew this lock was too sophisticated for similar manipulation, but he drew out the dagger for an exploratory probe, attempting to insert the tip of the blade into the threadlike chink between door and frame. To his astonishment, it slid in smoothly, without effort; when he withdrew it a slender wood shaving fell out onto the top step. He looked at it for a minute, then at the crack, which seemed a millimeter wider. He discovered he was holding his breath, and released it in a long sweet sigh. Then he stood up, and plunged the knife into the door above the lock. The hard, seasoned wood parted at its touch as if it were chipboard. Sawing it to and fro, he cut his way around the mortise. A little sawdust sifted out: otherwise, the line was as neat as a surgical incision. When he had finished he slipped the dagger into the crack and levered the door toward him. Exercising far more caution than on previous occasions, he snaked his body through the gap into the passageway beyond.

  He had been hoping for daylight, but it was dark. His watch showed nearly nine, but whether it was the same evening, or a day later, or more, he had no way of telling. Through an adjacent doorway he saw the kitchen, with unwashed plates and crockery stacked in the sink. The lights were on, but he could hear no one. Physical need took over: he nipped inside, switched on the tap, grabbed a nearby cup—and drank, and drank, and drank. He thought he could feel the water flooding through him like a spring tide, swelling shrunken muscles, lubricating, revitalizing. He glanced around for something to eat, lifted the lid on what proved to be a cheese dish, and cut himself a hunk of cheddar. His hand hovered over an apple in the fruit bowl, but there was little other fruit and he knew its absence might be noticed. He must not lapse into carelessness again. He had closed the cellar door, slotting the lock section into place like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. He took another long drink of water, then replaced the cup where he had found it.

  There were other doors from the kitchen leading variously to a coal cellar, a breakfast parlor, and a storeroom; he remembered from his earlier exploration that beyond the parlor was the long corridor that led back to the heart of the house. His first priority was to find Gaynor, but he had no wish to run into the manservant, or the as yet unknown figure of Dr. Laye. He returned to the short passage outside the main cellar. A narrow stair ascended from it to an upper floor and at one end was a back door opening on the garden. Will hesitated. The stair was tempting, but outside was the car, where Lougarry might still be waiting. He could enlist her support, or send her for assistance. Use your head, he told himself, just for once. He opened the door and stepped out into the night.

  It was very dark. The hunchback ridge loomed over him, close against a low sky: he could see dim shapes of rolling cloud, hear the fretful wind whining among the chimney pots. It had been warm in the house (not surprising, he reflected, in view of the underfloor heating) but out here it was cold, and he shivered automatically. Guessing he was around the back, he skirted the building until he could see the gnarled topiary of the formal garden and the approach to the main entrance. There was a light behind shrouded windows on the ground floor, possibly the drawing room, and another light on an upper story showing a striped pattern against the curtains that might have been bars. Will stared at it with fierce concentration, fixing its location in his mind. Then he made his way to where the car was still parked, peered inside while fumbling for his keys. But Lougarry was gone.

  She’s gone for help, he thought. That’s it. She would never have waited this long. (How long had it been?) Nothing could have happened to her. He had known her to stop a speeding motorbike, confront both witch and demon, outrun the hounds of the Underworld. Nothing could happen to Lougarry. But it was unlike her to go straight for Ragginbone, instead of searching for Will and Gaynor first… He began to call her, softly, uncertainly, more with mind than voice, accustomed over the years to hearing the werewolf without the interruption of ears, touching thought to thought. And almost immediately the call came back to him, urgent to the point of desperation, but faint and growing fainter. Run … run … too dangerous … Azmodel… this is Azmodel…

  “Where are you?” Will whispered; but his voice was loud in his head.

  Don’t come… don’t look… run…

  She was near, he was sure: he could feel her urgency, her danger, somewhere very close by. He drew out the black knife. It looked like a splinter of the abyss in his hand. He grasped the hilt firmly: it seemed to convey to him the strength of an owner long dead, someone nightwise, dauntless, reckless, as sharp and deadly as the blade he wielded. The warning in his mind had dwindled to a whisper—run—but he knew now where it came from. He padded softly across the weed-grown drive and into the formal garden.

  Fading paths crossed one another, trickling away into unkempt flower beds or vanishing under roving shrubs. Will trampled the beds, thrust a passage between impeding bushes. He was vaguely aware of thorny stems plucking his jeans, the scratching fingers of twigs, but Lougarry’s despair filled his thought to the exclusion of all else. Behind him, the house was lost: the garden appeared far larger than he had realized, a sprawling maze where everything was crippled, eroded, diseased, and nothing grew but the hardiest of weeds. He saw the sundial first, like the stump of a pillar, significant and ominous. Then he perceived movement, right in front of him—indistinct shapes circling something that did not move, darting, pouncing—the snapping of feeble jaws, the moon-glow of eyes once bright and fierce. He was so close, he had almost stumbled straight into it. He took a second—less than a second—to absorb what was happening. Then he attacked.

  The black knife arced to and fro, singing as it cut the air. He felt its hatred for these creatures that he could not see, the dreadful eagerness with which it sliced through flesh and limb. Some of them tried to turn on him—talons scored his leg, flabby hands seized him—but the knife was too quick for them. In moments, all lay dying, dismembered on the ground, or fled into the night. Yet when Will came to step over the bodies there was nothing there. Only Lougarry. He knelt down beside her, took her head in his hands.

  That is a good knife, she said, in the silence of his mind.

  “I stole it,” said Will. “Crime pays. Are you badly hurt?”

  She indicated the trap. He cleaned the dagger on a clump of moss, sheathed it, and crouched down to release the mechanism. It took him a little while, groping in the dark, unable to see either trap or wolf clearly. When she was free he ran a hand over the injured leg, saw the dark ooze of fresh blood on his palm. “I’ll try and carry you to the car,” he said. “I’ve got some rags in there; they’ll do for a bandage. Temporarily. I’ll have to leave you there for a bit. I must find Gaynor.”

  She was heavy but he managed, arms linked under her belly, holding her close to his chest. When they reached the car he set her down, unlocked it, and lifted her onto the backseat, glancing around every other second, thankful that the automatic light did not work. He explored the side pockets by feel, unwilling to switch on any illumination, finding some old paint rags that he trusted were not too unhygienic. “I
’m sorry,” he murmured, as he bound them inexpertly round the wound. “These’ll have to do. I think the leg’s broken—”

  Yes.

  Her mental response sounded weak, the whisper of a thought, but he assimilated it with relief. “We’ll get it set as soon as we can,” he said, struggling with the knot.

  Tighter.

  “What were those … things that attacked you? Where did they go?”

  Morlochs. (The name took shape in his head.) They did not go anywhere. We … went.

  “We went?” Will echoed.

  This place is in two dimensions. They are … they should be… there. We were there, and here.

  She added: We were lucky they were so few. In numbers, they are deadly.

  “By there,” said Will, “do you mean … Azmodel? That’s what you told me. This is Azmodel”

  You should have run, said the thought in his mind.

  He had tied the makeshift bandage as tightly as he dared. Now he stroked her neck, both giving reassurance and seeking it. Her fur felt rough and sticky with sweat.

  She requested: Water.

  “I don’t think I”

  When I drink, I am strong. You need help. I will fetch someone.

  “You can’t,” said Will. “Your leg is broken.”

  Lougarry showed her teeth. I have three more.

  Will thought of his own tormenting thirst in the cellar, and the perils of the kitchen. He said: “I won’t be long.”

  He was gone over half an hour.

  The manservant was there, washing the dishes; Will heard him in time, retreating back outside. Ear to the door panel, he caught the sound of footsteps approaching the little passageway, but if Harbeak glanced toward the cellar he must have seen nothing amiss. Feet returned to the kitchen, cupboards opened and shut, crockery chinked. When silence ensued, Will waited several minutes before he dared to venture indoors. He found a large jug, filled it, and made his way back to the car.

  Lougarry was waiting, without impatience or complaint. She drank half the water fast, the rest more slowly, pacing herself, knowing both her own capacity and her need. “You can’t walk,” Will reiterated. “You were half-dead earlier. I had to carry you.”

  I have rested, she responded, and I have drunk. Now I am strong again. But you must come with me to the gate. Ido not know how to work it, and I cannot jump the wall.

  They stole down the driveway, keeping to the deepest shadows. The clouds opened briefly overhead, showing a sly glimpse of moon, and they shrank from its probing beam, but it was quickly obscured. Lougarry hobbled on three legs, ungainly but apparently restored to part of her strength. When they reached the gate it was some time before Will located the button to open it; he had been secretly afraid it might be operated only by remote control. Lougarry slipped through as soon as there was space, glanced back once—an untypical gesture—then limped off into the night. Will found a stone fallen from the coping and wedged it against the post so the gate could not be properly closed, hoping this would not set off any alarms. If someone comes, he thought, at least they’ll be able to get in. If…

  He stared back up the drive at the dark huddle of the Hall. This is Azmodel… He thought of the monster beneath the cellar, and the loathing that infused the she-wolf’s mind when she uttered Morlochs, and the unseen hand of Dr. Jerrold Laye. He could go now, follow Lougarry, find backup. It would be the sensible thing to do. He was exhausted and half-starved; he had no Gift to aid him, no plan to follow. Fear loomed in front of him like a vast insurmountable barrier. He tried to picture Gaynor, desperate and terrified, needing him; he touched the knife for courage or luck. But in that moment he knew only that it was dark and cold, and he was terribly alone, and as frightened as a child.

  Eventually he began to walk back toward the house.

  Gaynor lay in a crimson nightmare struggling to draw breath. Fluorescent amoebas drifted across her vision, subdividing and rejoining. Presently they began to cohere into strange aberrant forms, unshapes cobbled together from a range of ill-assorted body parts, sprouting like fungi all around her. She did not want to look at them, so she opened her eyes, but they were still there. They seemed to be watching her, not with their eyes but with their mouths. Random incisors extruded over spotted lip or curved inward to hook their prey; tongues slithered into view like eels. She wanted to scream but her throat closed and the sound was stifled inside her. Darkness surged upward, smothering her, and when she woke again it was day.

  She was in bed, but not her bed at Dale House. For a minute she wondered if she might be back in London the window was in the right place for London but the room was utterly unfamiliar. Heavy beams spanned the high ceiling; the curtains were of some old-fashioned brocade; beyond, shadow bars striped the daylight. She thought: Bars? I’m in a room with bars on the window? It seemed not merely worrying, but preposterous. In real life people did not wake up in unfamiliar rooms with barred windows. She tried to turn her head in order to see more of her surroundings but her neck felt painful and very stiff. And then memory returned, not in a trickle but a flood, and she knew where she was, and why, and fear filled her. Fear for herself, for Will, for Fern, who, if Dr. Laye was right, was walking into a trap. (But he wasn’t Dr. Laye: he was the Spirit they had spoken of, Azmordis.) A trap, and she was the bait. She tried to sit up, and nausea rippled through her in waves, too gentle for actual vomiting but more than enough to send her reeling back onto the pillow.

  A preliminary check revealed that she was still more or less fully dressed, except for her jacket and shoes. She undid the zip in her trousers in order to remove the pressure on her stomach and eventually her insides relaxed into their normal patterns of behavior. Bodily concerns took priority; she got up carefully, determined not to relapse, and surveyed the amenities. There was a modern washstand, a couple of vintage armchairs, an oval mirror in a carved frame. That was all. In the end, she was forced to improvise with a porcelain basin possibly intended for fruit, a disagreeable proceeding that made her conclude that the real issue behind penis envy is accuracy of aim. Then she washed her face and hands with the soap provided, and felt her skin crinkling for lack of moisturizer. She tried the door, a forlorn hope: it was locked. She was reluctant to draw the curtains, wanting neither to see the bars in all their grim reality nor make herself visible to whatever unfriendly eyes might be waiting outside. But she had no watch, and although she sensed it was morning she needed to be sure. She pulled the drapes back a little way.

  Gaynor could make out the formal garden that she had noticed on arrival, looking, from above, as if a part of the design had slipped sideways: paths and flower beds failed to interconnect, shrubs huddled together in thickets and then trailed away into a bristle of barren twigs. There was something moving down there, close to an object that might have been a sundial, but the neglected topiary intervened, blotting most of whatever it was from view, and her long-range vision was not good, though she wore glasses only to drive. She squinted at it for a while, but it seemed to be motionless now, or had disappeared. The garden was bordered by a hedge; beyond, the land fell away into a deep fold of the valley, only the high stone wall marking the boundary of the property. Clouds shaped like the underside of huge boats paddled across the sky. The colors were gray-brown, gray-green, gray-white, a hundred aquatints of gray. A brisk wind was hurrying the cloud boats, breaking their trails into scuds of cirrus foam. In between, isolated sunbeams stalked the remote landscape, touching the earth with fleeting tracks of brilliance. Gaynor recollected from the previous day that the house faced roughly southeast, so it seemed safe to deduce that it was still morning, though whether early or late she could not tell. Now she had summoned the nerve to look out she could not look away; she drew a chair up to the window and sat there, elbows on the sill, gazing down the long hillside into a blur of distance.

  She was interrupted by a sound behind her: the click of a lock, and the door opening. She started and turned.

  “Good morning,” said
Harbeak. His manner, as always, was that of the ideal servant but his voice was a dead monotone, and in the stronger light she could see the dough of his face pinched and kneaded into tiny peaks and troughs that somehow gave him less expression, not more. “I’m afraid you missed breakfast: I looked in on you at half past nine, but you were sleeping. However, I will bring you some lunch presently. First, I expect you would like to use the toilet.”

  Gaynor reddened, remembering the fruit bowl. She said: “Yes, please,” and then wished she hadn’t put in the please, sensing that on some deeper level, far below his outward impassivity, he was taking pleasure in her subjection, her embarrassment, her exposure to petty indignity. She wondered suddenly if it was he who had carried her to bed, he who had removed her jacket and shoes, perhaps searching her, touching her, exploring the secret niches of her body. She shuddered, and knew that the shudder reached him, and thrilled through him in a spasm of unholy satisfaction.

  “Follow me,” he said. “Remember you are watched. All the time.”

  The nightmare creatures with their oozing mouths… eyes, eyes in a paneled room…

  She pushed the fantasies away, looking for security cameras, though she saw none. She had horrors enough without imagining more.

  “I won’t try to escape,” she said. For the present, it was true. She felt too physically weak, too unsure of her ground.

  “You won’t succeed,” he retorted. Or maybe it wasn’t a retort, just an affirmation. His tone provided no clue.

  The lavatory had a lock on the door, giving her a few minutes of privacy, but no window. Even if there had been, she knew she would have been unable to clamber out. At a guess they were on the third floor, and it was a long way down.