The Saint of Dragons

by Jason Hightman

  “Let’s just say I’m not sure I trust you.”

  The Dragon frowned. “Sadly, I must say it is perhaps for the best. My magic is untrustworthy. Terrors, yes, may come our way. But I shall work against that.”

  Simon nodded, satisfied for now.

  Birds flew by in the night, lit up by the moon glow. Simon noticed that as the sea birds gathered near, they were chased off by black vultures like those in Beijing. At night, against the torn-silk clouds and the stars and the white-skimmed black ocean, the dreary flyers looked almost pretty. They stayed together, eyeing the ship with their glassy eyes glinting from the moon. Simon watched the vultures winging after the ship for miles and miles.

  The shapes unnerved Simon, and he stayed awake nearly all night.

  Chapter Thirty

  SEPARATE JOURNEYS

  IT WAS JUST BEFORE dawn.

  Sunlight was licking at the edges of the horizon.

  Ahead, on deck, in the dim light of morning, a Knight on horseback drifted past the ship.

  Simon squinted.

  The Knight was made of smoke.

  Jolted, the boy looked to the Black Dragon, who was sleeping on deck, his curled pipe still in his mouth. As the smoke left his pipe, it was making shapes, dozens and dozens of them, and all around Simon the smokeshapes enlarged and drifted.

  Other Knights, and other horses, formed from the pipe smoke. They were huge and fearsome, and moved slowly, heavily, gliding away onto the sea, to break apart in the wind.

  Simon realized the smoke was sculpted from the dreams of the Dragon.

  Curious, he crept to the sleeping creature, who was talking in his sleep. He appeared to be having a nightmare.

  “No, no,” he moaned groggily, “Do not kill me, Knight…. Let me live…”

  The Dragon stirred restlessly, his eyelids quivering. He muttered on, in Chinese, as the canary on his shoulder hopped about, disturbed.

  Simon took the pipe from the Dragon’s mouth and set it safely aside. He picked up the woolen blanket that had fallen from the Dragon’s chair and laid it gently on the old creature. The Dragon relaxed, slipping into a more comfortable slumber.

  Pleased with his work, Simon stepped back to let him sleep a bit longer.

  The pipe unfurled the last of its smoke, which took the shape of a tiny junk that slipped lazily out over the ocean, expanding and growing until it was almost as large as life, and in the smoky hues, Simon could see the outline of a boy and the Dragon himself on its deck. The pleasant image drifted away above the tides, until a flock of seabirds and the breeze passed through it, making it into a stringy mist.

  The boy had seen the creature’s inner heart and found only fear there.

  Thus, for better or worse, Simon came to put his faith in a Dragon.

  This was something his father would never have allowed. The Black Dragon was not to be trusted. Simon was too generous and innocent a person to understand the dark ways of the world. Aldric told himself he should have seen that.

  He stood in the Dragon’s den and felt rage take over. He kicked violently against the table and yelled out in anger. As it cracked and echoed in the chamber, Aldric heard the patter of running feet.

  A man was fleeing the tunnels, and Aldric chased him down. He threw him against the wall and drew his sword to his throat.

  “Who are you?” Aldric cried.

  “No pain, please, no pain,” he answered. “I serve the old man who lives here. I brought feed for his birds. He was to be gone.”

  “Gone where?” Aldric prepared to use the sword. “Your life depends on it.”

  “He is…good. Good to me…”

  In his desperation, Aldric grew furious. “He has my son—where is he now?”

  “England,” said the terrified servant. “He would not hurt anyone. He’s been forced to this. It’s beyond anyone’s control. He serves a powerful master. The only thing anyone can hope for now is to find a good master, and hope to live through it.”

  The Asian man told Aldric where he could find his son in London. Aldric lowered his sword. The servant went on, out of breath: “Your time will be brief with the boy. Your time, and the time of all of us who are human, is ending. The Dragons are remaking the land.”

  The man had no fight left in his eyes, as if brainwashed by his time with the Dragon. “They are united now, one effort. One mission. It is all but done. Serve them and you have hope. My master is a good one. All of you who have raged against them have lost now.”

  Aldric began walking away.

  “They will now dominate all mankind as they have always wanted,” the servant said after him.

  Aldric kept his stride.

  “All that is left for us is to enjoy the days we have left, the freedom we now cling to.” His voice echoed down the tunnel as Aldric headed out. “Go to your son. May you find him before the End Time.”

  Aldric left the underground chamber and made his way through the city, numb with worry. In the countryside, he found his jet and ordered a course for Russia. It was the longest flight of his life.

  Hours and hours later, he returned to the Ship with No Name, long awaiting his arrival. Fenwick the fox lifted its head, rushing to him with joy.

  It took a moment for Aldric to feel the ship was secure enough to launch as he went to a wood console at the front of the ship and set the lever forward. He placed his hand on a metal engraving of a world map, his finger on London, and the magic that was left in the ship calculated his desired destination.

  Patting Fenwick, Aldric felt the ship surge to life, then moved to a floorboard, opening a hidden cabinet where his brother’s sword and other weapons lay waiting.

  “A bit unwieldy for one man,” he said to himself, looking over the devices. “But I’ll need anything I can get….”

  The weapons here would augment the ones he always relied on. The Knight now stood ready for battle. He took his ship from Russian waters and left with all speed to London. The Ship with No Name had never sailed so fast. Maradine’s magic, woven into the lines and threaded into the sails, labored hard.

  Aldric arrived just hours after the Black Dragon.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  FRIENDSHIP WITH A DRAGON

  DISGUISED AS A DOTTERING old Chinese man by the name of Ming Song, the Black Dragon led Simon through the streets of London. It was dark by the time they arrived at the building where the gathering of the Light Dragons was to occur.

  Before they left the ship, the Dragon had given Simon a very fine suit to wear that fit him fairly well, and he had cleaned up considerably.

  The Chinese man led him to an immense white palace where an exhibit of modern art was under way. Well-dressed people moved in and out of a spacious gallery.

  “A museum?” asked Simon.

  “Private gallery,” said the Dragon. “The opening allows us cover for the arrival of so many. It is hoped no one will notice the Light Dragons slipping in to London.”

  The ground shifted under their feet, rolling like a wave. A heavy earthquake. Simon looked at the Dragon in horror.

  The Dragon was calm. “Inescapable side effect. The Light Dragons are meeting beneath us. We enter here….”

  Art lovers roamed throughout the gallery. One woman near Simon was complaining that there were too many people here, rude people, such as that tall gentlemen with the ruddy face and a slight problem breathing—he seemed awfully uptight, she said. And the slim Frenchman—she was more than a bit perturbed to catch him nibbling at one of the paintings; at least, she thought that’s what he was doing. He turned around with such a handsome, innocent smile, perhaps she was imagining things. And then there was the Russian general. A plump man, he dressed drably, so it was hard to tell if he had any money to spend on art. But the nerve of someone bringing cats to a gallery…. She was saying all this, and Simon only dimly heard, for he was now quite distracted.

  He had noticed a familiar kind of painting. It was a collection of abstract scraps, and he realized it
was Alaythia’s, which someone must have salvaged from her New York apartment. He turned, and was surprised again. In a flowing evening gown, Alaythia was there, standing before a huge white painting. Simon ran to her.

  “Alaythia?”

  She stood, unmoving, eyes fixed to the painting. Spiritless.

  “They caught me in Russia,” she said, as though half asleep. “As soon as I left you, their men found me. They’ve got me chained here somehow…. The painting has an enchantment to it. I can’t seem to get away from it. I just find it endlessly fascinating. Isn’t that so strange?”

  In his confusion, Simon felt a sudden urge to pull her away, get her out.

  “My proudest moment,” she droned on. “They’re displaying my work in a gallery. Too bad it’s only in this evil place. They were all in the art world, you know. The Venetian, the White, the Parisian, they all knew each other. It was only a matter of time before they brought in others.”

  Simon struggled to understand, as she looked blankly away. He stepped in front of her. “What is happening?”

  “Your father…he won’t be happy with this.”

  “No,” said the Black Dragon, who had joined them, “he most certainly will not be happy.” With that he looked quite uncomfortable, and behind him, Simon finally saw the other gallery guests. He saw them for what they were.

  Dragons.

  He had walked into a gallery of Dragons. Simon almost lost his breath. The Water Dragon of Venice stood with the Parisian Dragon; the Russian Dragon, in a muddle of cats, stood beside them.

  The sinister beasts closed in on him, walking slowly through the crowd.

  “Do forgive me,” the Black Dragon told a shocked Simon, “but they would have killed me if I failed to bring you.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with terror. “This was a trap…?”

  “A thousand sorrys,” said the Black Dragon, and he did seem to mean it, “but my fear of you is greater than you know. My fear of your father greater still.”

  “You lied to me,” Simon said. “Everything, from the beginning, it was all a lie…?”

  “I am afraid, boy-child, that there are no Light Dragons. There is no such thing. Though I did enjoy your company,” he replied. “And you did heal my wounds, for which I am grateful.”

  “The least I could do,” hissed Simon, his teeth gritted.

  The Black Dragon looked apologetic. “You are more than just a human. Your life has…value.”

  “Not to me,” grumbled the French one.

  “What do you want?” asked Alaythia, the spell she was under slowly being broken by the sound of Simon’s voice. She was desperately looking for an escape route.

  “What we want is the boy,” said the Russian, “and his hateful father.”

  “That’s what this is all about,” said Simon. “You want my father. And you know he’ll come for me.”

  “Très astute. Clever boy,” said the Parisian. “Smart as your father. You would be dangerous if you were allowed to grow older.”

  “What are your plans for him?”

  “I should think that obviousssss,” smiled the Venice Water Dragon. “We’ve been trying to get at him for agessss. Now we have you as well. We can destroy the last of the Dragonhuntersss all at once.”

  “Don’t fear,” said the Black Dragon, “I will see to it you feel no pain.”

  The Paris Dragon glared. “Nonsense,” he said. “He will feel great pain.”

  Simon and Alaythia were surrounded. Simon could feel his weapons under his long coat, but getting to them would be impossible. He couldn’t move that fast. The creatures would burn him in an instant.

  “We have tried to remove your father for many yearssss,” said the Dragon of Venice, moving closer, steadily closer, “and never had any luck. Now we know his weaknessss is his child. He will come for you, and when he doesss, we will capture him. From there, death will come ssslowly, not all at once. Where’s the fun in that, after all?”

  “Not likely. He’s beaten you before,” said Simon bravely.

  “Oh, but not all of us together, little child,” the Venice Water Dragon said with a sickly cough.

  “He won’t fall into your trap,” said Simon. “And when he gets here, he will bring your plans crashing down on you.”

  “The skinmonkey’s brave,” said the Russian coldly. “How sad that his bravery will win him nothing.”

  “There was nothing I could do, Simon,” said the Black Dragon, “I cannot defy the master now—he has far too much power.”

  “The Masquerade is over,” said the Parisian, and the Dragons let go of their disguising magic.

  The Dragons were now revealed.

  Alaythia just stood there, wanting to faint. Please faint, she told herself, faint so you don’t have to look.

  The sight of the creatures sent the crowd running from the room with shrieks of terror.

  Simon took the chance to whip out his crossbow.

  The Dragonmen stopped their approach.

  “Don’t touch her,” Simon said.

  “Oh, no,” said a voice. “We have plans for her….”

  Alaythia and Simon knew the voice.

  Everyone turned—and it seemed to Simon that the Venetian cowered a bit from the new presence. And it was clear why he was cowering. From out of the chaos, behind the other Dragons, with great authority, strode the Man in White. He was dressed in a white suit and white cloak. Beneath his feet hordes of white lizards crawled, and high above his head white bats swarmed.

  To Simon’s eyes, he became the White Dragon, undisguised and very much alive.

  The Master.

  “We have been having a wonderful time with you,” said the White Dragon. “But all good things must come to an end.”

  Now you have to faint, Alaythia told herself, but still she did not.

  Simon did not think he could stand the horror a moment longer when suddenly the huge gallery windows behind the Dragons shattered gloriously and in crashed Aldric St. George, riding his furious steed Valsephany.

  The horse was outfitted with a special harness—a new weapon Simon hadn’t seen before—with little pipes attached, pointed forward. The pipes fired arrows automatically. The bolts blasted out at once as Aldric rushed the gallery. But he couldn’t aim anywhere except straight ahead, and most of the arrows fell short, slamming into the floor. Simon gasped as several stabbed near him. The Venetian caught one of the arrows in his jaws and spat it away.

  Aldric swung his sword down first on the Paris Dragon, but the blue-yellow Serpent shot back away from him, scurrying to the wall.

  Aldric galloped to the end of the gallery, where Simon and Alaythia cowered. “Are you all right?” he asked quickly.

  “We’ll live,” said Simon.

  Alaythia looked relieved. Hearing Aldric’s voice had erased all traces of the spell she was under.

  Aldric paced the horse in front of them to keep the Dragonmen back.

  The White Dragon stepped in front of the others.

  “Welcome to my humble home,” he said. “It’s open to the public tonight, but you seem to have scared most everyone off.”

  “You live,” Aldric said with astonishment.

  “I have risen from the ashes,” the White Dragon said, and smiled.

  “Then I shall have the pleasure of killing you twice.”

  “You never really gained anything, Dragonhunter. My death was an imitation, of course. A bit of drama, a flash of fire, and the illusion was complete. A risk, to be sure, but I needed to buy myself some time to put my plan in motion. You should have realized it. When a Serpent dies, his ashes turn red to the touch. The clues were all there. You hadn’t even finished saying my deathspell.”

  “I thought I was unusually lucky,” said Aldric, “and you unusually weak.”

  Venemon laughed, the skin of his long white throat shuddering. “You should have studied the lore more carefully…but then you had only half the story.”

  He pulled from his whit
e cloak the Lost Book of Saint George.

  The room was filled with madness now from the conflicting Dragon-magic. All of the paintings showed images of faces suddenly forming under the paint, and the faces were screaming. Pieces of glass from the shattered window were floating about, or ticking on the floor like nervous claws. Earthquakes rumbled under their feet.

  “I am sure you are expecting,” said the White Dragon, “a most climactic showdown.” His white reptilian feet tapped the floor with a nervous arrogance while he continued, “But I am sorry to disappoint. There will be no fight to the death. This is not a battleground. It’s a trap.”

  He chanted a quick spell. The other dragons’ hoarse and cloudy voices laughed in the background. The top of the gallery became a smooth, pearly mist.

  The humans looked up in horror.

  The white mist descended on them; the ceiling of fog simply fell, like a great ivory curtain. Valsephany gave a neighing cry. Aldric tried to control the horse.

  As it fell, the huge curtain became solid, turning into bars of white iron. Simon and the others were now in a huge white prison cell that quickly sunk into the ground, below the gallery, into an all-white dungeon. Alaythia had managed not to faint. Instead she was struck by falling debris from the quaking room, and fell unconscious.

  It would seem they’d been captured.

  The game was up.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  UNWELCOME GUESTS

  THE DRAGONMEN WERE NOWHERE in sight.

  No one spoke for a while. There is a certain level of shock involved with failing to save the world and being captured against your will.

  Wind whistled through the white dungeon. The prison was huge; it had been made to contain other enemies of the White Dragon, of which there were many, and whose bones now littered the floor.

  The white-iron dungeon lay under the Great White Palace, and the Great White Palace lay in the heart of London. It was not hidden away, but protected by magic, which kept people from asking questions. No one knew the Dragonhunters were being held there. No one would hear their calls.