by Garth Nix
“Six!” shouted Runnel, and Eleanor rolled her wrists over, carrying out her training perfectly, one foot sliding forward, her short but whip-fast arms bringing the sword back up, slicing under Sir Saskia’s attempted block, encouraging her to retreat. This time, the false knight didn’t counterattack but kept backing off.
Sir Saskia was trying to get closer to her troops, Eleanor realized, and began to circle around to cut her off.
“Imp!” spat Sir Saskia. “Chilblain! Surrender and I will let you live!”
Eleanor didn’t waste breath answering. She sprang forward, stabbing at Sir Saskia’s left armpit from below. The woman reeled from the sudden attack, feinted with her sword to Eleanor’s right, and kicked her hard under her left knee.
Sir Saskia wore steel-clad boots. The pain was like fire. Eleanor’s leg collapsed and she fell sideways, Runnel desperately moving across her body to parry a stab at the girl’s face.
Then it was Eleanor’s turn to counter as Sir Saskia leaped forward and raised her sword for a two-handed blow that would have separated Eleanor’s head from her shoulders if it had landed. But Eleanor rolled aside and reached out with Runnel, slicing Sir Saskia across the back of her knee, where she had only leather armor. The false knight roared in pain, hopped back, and fell over, landing heavily in the earth, her sword flying out of her hand.
Eleanor crawled on her elbows in a frenzy, and pushed Runnel ahead to the full extent of her arm. The very sharp point of the sword pricked Sir Saskia’s throat, just above the top of her hauberk.
“Yield,” said Eleanor, her voice very calm.
Odo was never really sure what happened with the first two bandits. He just let Biter do whatever he was going to do, and tried to twist and jump out of the way of the thrusting spears, and a few seconds later those two bandits were down on the ground and he was rushing past, apparently unhurt and screaming his very first battle cry:
“For Lenburh!”
The four bandits who were strung out in a line ahead of him thought it was a horrifying battle cry. When two of their number fell almost instantly, and then the huge warrior with the sword that glowed a ghoulish green continued to thunder towards them, they all came to the same decision at the same time. They were used to frightening peasants and small skirmishes. Already unnerved by the defiant smiths in their fine armor, wielding huge hammers, Odo was too much for them.
They threw down their spears and ran for the forest.
This was the beginning of the end for Sir Saskia’s forces. The troops on the wall looked back and saw Mannix writhing on the ground, Sir Saskia held at sword-point by a girl equipped with an enchanted sword, while another knight wielding his own sorcerous weapon chased two of their number towards the trees.
The attackers broke. The cry “Save yourselves!” went up, and within a few seconds there were dozens running for the forest. The smiths pursued them for a dozen paces, caught several with hammer blows to their backs, and let the others go.
Odo too stopped pursuing at the edge of the trees. He was completely winded and not really sure what had happened, save that he was alive, Eleanor was alive, and Sir Saskia was captured.
“We did it!” he exclaimed, holding Biter high. “We’ve won!”
“See?” Eleanor told Runnel delightedly. “I told you that you weren’t cursed!”
But even as she spoke, the setting sun was blocked by a sudden shadow, and a great wind blew across the battlefield.
Odo looked up and slowly lowered his sword.
Eleanor’s triumph cooled instantly to ashes.
An enormous golden dragon, easily twenty times the size of Odo’s water mill, came to a crashing, earthshaking landfall in the clearing between palisade and forest, incidentally crushing several of the slower bandits beneath its massive feet, each of which was equipped with claws twice the size and breadth of Biter.
Everybody stopped. Everybody stared. There was total silence, save for the quiet sobbing of the wounded.
“The beast,” said Runnel in an awed voice. “The mighty Quenwulf!”
As if in answer to her name, the dragon lifted her massive head towards the sky and, with a sound like a thousand blaring trumpets, let forth a great blast of fire — red fire that was far hotter than Master Fyrennian’s old forge, so hot that even though she aimed upwards, everyone around had to shield their faces and duck down. A pure, white smoke billowed out after the flame, spreading across the battlefield like fog, redolent with the scent of a burning forest of tall pines.
Then the dragon spoke, and her voice was a thousand great drums all beaten at once, the earth shivering with the vibration. Everyone in earshot felt that voice in their bones.
“I am Quenwulf. Who calls me from my rest?”
Impossible!” Saskia Vileheart gasped. “It can’t be …”
“It is if Runnel says it is,” said Eleanor bleakly. She straightened up, favoring her injured leg. She stared at the dragon and thought of Runnel’s sketch in the dirt — the spots where a dragon was vulnerable, the eyes and under the jaw and wings. None of that would be any use. Not against this mighty creature, not against that flame. And those jaws couldn’t just bite a horse in half, they could swallow one whole and not even feel it going down.
“Who calls me?” roared the dragon again. “Who kindled the great fire to summon me from my sleep?”
Eleanor looked across at Odo, where he stood near the trees. She made the “run away” signal he’d done before, when they first found Biter, but it was his turn to ignore her.
Odo cleared his throat and stepped forward into the dragon’s shadow and toward its head, the source of that all-consuming fire.
“I lit the fire, oh Mighty Quenwulf!” he shouted, his voice only quavering a little. “Though I did not mean to wake you from your rest.”
Quenwulf moved her head to face him, and one great black-pupiled golden eye followed him. Odo noticed a heavily armored eyelid blink across for a second. Perhaps the eyes of smaller dragons were vulnerable. Quenwulf’s certainly were not.
“And I helped light the fire!” shouted Eleanor. She moved to stand next to Odo, Runnel held down at her side.
Their shoulders touched.
“At least we won a battle,” he whispered. She smiled weakly up at him.
“Few in their right minds do mean to wake me,” said Quenwulf. The dragon’s eyelids closed again, halfway, and stayed lidded. “I see that you bear enchanted swords. Tell me your names, all of you.”
“Odo,” said Odo. He hesitated, then added defiantly, “Sir Odo of Lenburh, and this is —”
“Hildebrand Shining Foebiter, Dragonslayer and Scourge of … Scourges!” shouted Biter, attempting to come up and lunge forward, even though he was at least twenty paces from the tip of the dragon’s nose. Odo wrestled him back down and sighed. It was one thing to be killed by a dragon, but he hoped he could at least do it with dignity.
“Dragonslayer?” said Quenwulf. “I think not. Perhaps scourge of your own knights, though. Or merely nuisance to your bearers. And you?”
“I am Sir Odo’s squire, Eleanor,” she said, standing as tall as she could.
“And I, Reynfrida Sharp-point Flamecutter,” said Runnel, very respectfully. “Sometimes known as the Sorrowful Sword. Mighty Quenwulf, I beg a boon.”
“Speak, little sword.” The dragon’s voice rumbled warningly. “Take care what you ask of me.”
“I ask that you forgive your untimely waking, and let Sir Odo and Squire Eleanor go free,” said Runnel. “They have true and noble hearts, and do good in the world. And the sword Biter, my youngest brother, he has long slept, with dreams of eels. He does not know what he is about. Let them go, and destroy me in your fire.”
“You seek an ending from Quenwulf?” the dragon asked.
“I am cursed,” said Runnel. “I have been the death of three knights, and wish no more to fall because of my burden.”
“I told you, you aren’t cursed,” said Eleanor, under her breath.
“Who brought the dragon?” countered Runnel. She spoke very softly, but still Quenwulf heard.
The dragon laughed, a laugh that sent a gout of the white, pine-smelling smoke across Odo and Eleanor.
“You did not bring me here. The great fire in that foolish dam woke me, but not before time. What is it you think you know of dragons, Sir Odo? Squire Eleanor? What do you know of me?”
“Little,” said Odo.
“Very little,” added Eleanor.
The dragon raised one eyelid in a questioning way. “Tell me all.”
“Uh, the stories talk about you … er … razing towns and … um …”
“Eating heroes,” said Eleanor. “Burning villages …”
“I concede that this is true,” said Quenwulf. “Except perhaps the hero part. I would not have called them ‘heroes’ myself. Did you ever wonder why I did these things?”
“Because you’re a dragon?” said Odo.
“I am a judge,” said Quenwulf. “A most terrible judge. Though a fair one, I would say. The towns and villages I razed were empty. I must keep my eye in, after all, and also maintain my reputation. I do not take lives unless I find it necessary.”
Eleanor’s gaze slid to the remains of a bandit still visible under one of the dragon’s claws and then hastily back to the dragon.
“For those I have judged and found guilty,” said the dragon with an unflinching rumble, “I am also the executioner. Now you have summoned me by fire, and I will again sit in judgment.”
“Who are the accused?” asked Odo. He felt strangely calm now. The dragon was not the unthinking beast he had always thought she would be. He already greatly preferred her to Sir Saskia.
“I will judge all of you present,” said Quenwulf. “Gather around. In front.”
“I and my soldiers may not be tried by you, dragon!” said Sir Saskia. She had gotten up, and was slowly backing away, with Mannix drooping at her side. “I answer only to my liege! We will withdraw, and you may deal with these others as you see fit.”
The dragon’s long, spiky tail slowly slid across the ground and curled behind Sir Saskia and Mannix. They stopped and both looked nervously about. The tail slid in closer, spikes towering above them. Sir Saskia and her squire reversed direction, stumbling forward as the dragon’s tail almost swept them up, and hurried as best they could to join Odo and Eleanor in front of Quenwulf’s maw.
“I will judge you,” said Quenwulf, “for I met an old man down by the river while I was following the smell of smoke from my summoning. He was less frightened of me than I expected, and that told me much, but now I wish to know more. When I call your name, step forward and open your eyes wide. Attempt no nonsense or dissembling as I look into your mind, or it will be extraordinarily painful. For you, that is. Sir Odo and Biter, to me!”
Odo stepped forward and opened his eyes wide, and the dragon looked at him, really looked at him. He felt her ancient, knowing gaze penetrate into the very depths of his being.
“Hmm,” said Quenwulf. “Interesting. A little too cautious. You didn’t want to be a knight, and yet … you have the makings of a great one.”
Odo felt her gaze leave him and focus on Biter. He trembled, but he forced himself to stay upright.
“Foolish sword,” said Quenwulf. “You have learned little, and forgotten what little you knew. It was ever thus. You may step back, Sir Odo.”
Odo stumbled backwards, ending up having to crouch down on one knee. This felt strangely natural, so he stayed there, with Biter stuck in the ground. The boy leaned on the sword’s hilt. Biter was, for once, completely silent.
“Eleanor and Runnel.”
Eleanor stepped forward and met the dragon’s gaze with her chin up and head held high. Her bruised knee almost gave way again, but she locked it by force of will. Like Odo, she felt Quenwulf peer into her mind, as if a light was examining every tiny corner of not just her head, but also her heart.
“You are brave,” said Quenwulf. “Ambition, now tempered by the reality of killing. Do you still wish to be a knight?”
“Yes,” said Eleanor, unable to be anything but honest with the dragon looking at her still. “But I know I have much left to learn.”
“That is for others to decide,” said Quenwulf. Eleanor felt the dragon’s unsettling gaze move to the sword. “Runnel?”
“Eleanor is a knight in all but name,” said Runnel. “Yet I would not want her knighted, for my curse —”
“You are not cursed,” Quenwulf proclaimed. “And never have been. It is possible, however, that one or more of your knights may have been.”
“I am truly not cursed?”
“You have been a little mad,” said Quenwulf, leaning back and huffing in a deep breath. “I find the ignorance of both you and your brother startling, and I recommend you address it. Enchanted swords should know more of their making. You may step away.”
Eleanor stumbled back and also ended up kneeling.
“Squire Mannix,” said Quenwulf. “Also known as Strangling Jack and Osric Keynton — branded murderers banished from their supposed homelands, according to my old friend.”
“No, that’s not me!” protested Mannix, looking futilely about for any means of escape.
“Again, I refute your right to judge me or my squire —” Sir Saskia started to say, but she choked into silence as the dragon’s tail moved again, whipping around like a scorpion’s, the long spike on the end stabbing Mannix right through the middle and then flipping him back into the dragon’s mouth. It happened so quickly he didn’t even have time to scream.
Quenwulf swallowed.
Odo and Eleanor gaped at her with a mixture of horror and awe.
“Sir Saskia.”
The armored woman limped forward. On her second step she suddenly jerked her arm forward to throw a hidden knife at Quenwulf’s eye. The armored eyelid flashed shut as the knife struck, bounced, and skittered down the dragon’s snout.
Eleanor and Odo held their breath, waiting for the tail to strike again, for the dragon to snap Sir Saskia up in a single gulp. But Quenwulf merely opened her eye again and focused the full weight of her stare at the rogue knight, who, whatever her other faults, was not lacking in courage. She opened her eyes wide too, and stood there, a defiant sneer on her face.
“A knight turned to evil is among the worst of things to walk the earth,” said Quenwulf distantly. “Yet there is some small flickering of light …”
“Do what you will, dragon,” sneered Sir Saskia. “I do not fear death!”
“No,” said Quenwulf. “That is why I will not give it to you.”
She reached out with one huge forefoot, flicked out a claw, and with great precision cut the armor from Sir Saskia, leaving her standing in her gambeson. Then the claw flickered once more, tapping her precisely in the center of her forehead.
“I have placed a doom of banishment upon you,” said Quenwulf. “You will walk east for one thousand days and never turn back, unless I tell you to.”
Sir Saskia’s legs stepped out from under her. One step, then another, like a marionette. “No!” she cried, fighting the dragon’s will with a mighty effort.
“East, I say. Do not go south, north, or west. I will know where you travel, and if you stray you will see me again.”
“With a lance in my hand and a fearless destrier beneath me!” Sir Saskia snarled. Her feet carried her another three steps. Then five.
“I order you to go!” Quenwulf roared.
Sir Saskia’s will failed.
“A lance for the dragon,” she cried to Eleanor and Odo over her shoulder as her legs carried her away. “For you two, your deaths shall not be so swift!”
Then she was gone, vanished into the forest.
Not one of her soldiers followed.
“You set her free!” protested Eleanor.
“I have found very little of interest to the east,” said Quenwulf. “She’ll die from thirst or starvation, most likely.” The dragon d
idn’t sound as if she cared all that much. “I believe that there is some hope of her redemption, however — a very slight hope. Perhaps if the liege she betrayed yet lives … I did not tell you to get up!”
Odo had begun to stand. He went back down on one knee as Quenwulf spoke, suddenly afraid again.
“Listen to me, Odo,” said Quenwulf. “You are not really a knight. It is not within a sword’s rights to grant that privilege, no matter how much it might wish its wielder to be so.”
“Oh,” said Odo. He wasn’t a knight? He thought he’d be relieved, but he wasn’t. He realized now that he didn’t want to go back to the mill. He wanted to do all the things a proper knight was supposed to do, a real knight: help people, protect the weak, fight against injustice … everything except slay dragons. The stories seemed to be wrong about that part.
“However, it is well within my rights,” Quenwulf went on. Extending her forefoot again, one sharp claw came down upon Odo’s right shoulder and then his left, touching so slightly that even the bruised one felt only the brush of air. “Rise, Sir Odo.”
Odo stood, shaking, and immediately looked at Eleanor. She stayed exactly where she was, staring up at the dragon, hardly daring to hope.
“Fate favors the bold, I have often heard said. Usually just before an incineration. Perhaps you are also ready, Eleanor. I am not entirely certain, however. But as it may be long before your worth can be adjudged by a true knight or another dragon, I will take matters into my own claws. Bow your head before me.”
Eleanor did as she was told, her mouth hanging open in sudden hope. Quenwulf’s claw brushed with surprising delicacy across her shoulders, and she heard the dragon’s words boom out across the battlefield.
“Rise, Sir Eleanor!”
She obeyed, feeling a full inch taller even though both her knees were weak.
“My judgment is given,” said Quenwulf. “Knights be true, and swords … attend to your natures rather than scourges and curses lest I be sterner with you when next we meet. Do not grow rusty, in mind or steel. Farewell from the mighty Quenwulf!”