The Saint of Dragons

by Jason Hightman

  THE QUEEN OF SERPENTS

  AS THE FIGHTING CONTINUED, Simon became slowly aware that the entire floor had turned invisible, and that something was coming toward them….

  Aldric did not see it for another moment, and then the rising shape could not be ignored. The White Dragon’s eyes shot downward as well.

  The Queen was floating upward.

  At first it was nothing more than blackness, the dark shape of a massive Dragon from the Old Times, the long neck, the long tail, the massive body, the vast, sharp wingspan. And then—the shape began to move, and fire filled its body. It was made of fire.

  Even its eyes were of fire.

  The Dragonmen themselves were horrified.

  It was awakening. Rebirthing. It would reign over them all.

  The flame-riddled head shifted, and Simon felt its yellow, unnatural eyes land on him. They were lifeless and electrically terrifying.

  The red flames of its body flickered and roared and movement began to animate the creature, slowly. Gradually, it was lifted up toward the invisible floor.

  Simon scrambled past the shocked Paris Dragon.

  As he crossed, Alaythia reached for his shoulder—her hand brushed the runes of his armor—and he flew into the air. He soared across the hall, so intent on his goal that his movement was as graceful as a dream. He rocketed toward his target.

  As he flew, Simon could feel Alaythia’s magic flowing outward.

  She was deep in meditation, her magic pushing back against the rising Dragon. The Dragon Queen, still waking from her centuries-old sleep, was sluggish and not prepared for battle.

  Alaythia tried sending it to sleep, but her abilities were far too weak. It was an immense creature, and it would not go back easily.

  Simon flew toward his fallen crossbow. The Russian saw his move, and strode after him. The Parisian turned back to Alaythia. She grabbed a lance and landed a strike at its shoulder. This gave her time to snatch up the Lost Book from the floor. Across the shaking hall, Aldric still clashed with the White Dragon, taking vicious blows.

  Dodging the Russian, Simon snatched up his crossbow in mid-flight and rose again, high into the air.

  Then, a desperate idea came to him. He ran the palm of his hand against the silver arrow’s sharpened tip. His blood ran over the barb.

  He looked down at the floor, at the deathspell scroll Alaythia had made.

  It was fluttering like something alive, scraping the floor, and Simon soared after it.

  He stabbed it onto his arrow.

  Then he hovered over the great gash in the floor. He aimed for the heart of the Queen and chanted the deathspell that had no name. The last one in the Book. It sounded almost like a prayer.

  The arrow fell through the invisible floor. It disappeared into the fire at the creature’s chest and slashed into the Dragon’s heart. The Dragon roared in anger.

  Simon fell back to the floor, as the heated wind from below racked his armor, ruining its power for flight.

  Alaythia renewed her chant, and the Queen of Serpents was launched back down into the depths of the earth. The darkness seemed to pull it down as if it were an infinitely heavy weight. Its roaring rumbled farther and farther away, a world-quaking growl filled with star-shattering screams, a roaring of absolute ferocity. The Queen was being buried again.

  The White Dragon screeched in fury, seeing the massive creature slip back down. He looked to Simon with pitch-black hatred. And then he did something very foolish.

  He opened his jaws and spat fire.

  It shot over the room in two quick, lean flares. But Simon dived behind the Venetian Dragon, who was hit. Enraged, ripping from the roiling water of his tank—the Venetian crashed loose and fired back with a blast of green-black flames. At once the fire took the shape of a dozen, crazed fire-figures, flying toward the White Dragon.

  In response, the White Dragon rolled out more flame.

  The white fire took the form of vicious man-creatures with gnashing fangs. The green firelings met the white, swooping toward one another in the air, locked in combat.

  The sight of fire set off a chain reaction as other Dragonmen threw fire at their enemies. Soon the palace was a sprawling inferno of firelings in every hue, attacking everything in sight.

  “Ragemagic!” Simon heard someone call. “Don’t throw your fire!”

  The floor before Simon became solid again, but the battle of the Dragons raged on—fire was whipping all around the room. He saw the Russian engulfed.

  Meanwhile, the White Dragon savagely thrust and swung his sword with devastating swiftness, sending Aldric into retreat. The Knight’s blade was torn from his grip; it clattered to the floor, and he fled to the other end of the Great Hall. Aldric, Simon, and Alaythia now stood in roughly the same place, cornered, in a last stand against the forces of darkness.

  Aldric’s sword lay under the White Dragon’s clawed foot.

  But Simon had his. Suddenly he threw it into his father’s arms.

  Now Aldric had a last chance to avenge himself, and he took it—leaping toward the White Dragon, slashing away its sword, and throwing himself at the hated beast. Aldric lunged at the dragon’s chest and clutched at its heart, yelling out its deathspell. In shock, the White Dragon gaped at the Knight, trying to push him away, but the words had already been spoken, each and every one of them.

  Aldric had won.

  The White Dragon burst into white fire, and the white fire peeled away his leathery skin and torched his vile bones, so that Aldric’s hands touched nothing but red ashes in the form of a Dragon.

  At that same instant, the Venetian pounced from behind, forcing Aldric to spin and plunge his sword into the water beast. Already afire with the White Dragon’s flames, the Venetian took this final blow and fell back to his death.

  Aldric had destroyed two Dragons in the span of an instant.

  But the fighting of the Dragonmen still surrounded them.

  Alaythia closed her eyes in sheer terror.

  Suddenly rubble from the quaking palace fell before them, and huge stone blocks slid over the floor to close around the St. Georges, forming a huge barrier. Alaythia was shielding them all with magic. They were protected as a tremendous blast of fire from every Pyrothrax in the world rolled around them.

  The last thing Simon saw was the Black Dragon shuffling to safety.

  The heroes huddled together in darkness. From inside the barrier, all Simon could see were flashes of light, as fire tried to rip through the stone cracks. The acrid stink of smoke choked him. But he had no idea what was happening outside.

  The barrier rocked and nearly tore apart, but it held. Through the flashes, Simon could catch glimpses of Aldric and Alaythia’s faces.

  He could hear the Dragons turning on one another, hear them snarling and fighting like angry dogs, hissing like snakes. There was a tumbling of bodies, as if they were rolling against one another.

  There was the chatter and crackle of fire-sprites, screeching with laughter.

  And then the earthquakes really began.

  The palace sounded like it was collapsing.

  What Simon could not see was the frenzied retreat of the Dragonmen from each other. Their fire was uncontrollable. The firelings soared and swept over the room, attacking anything and everything, flames eating one another.

  The reptilians fought, and when they could fight no more, they fled the palace. They chanted ancient magics, expanding their wings into great batlike shapes.

  The palace was alive with the sound of huge wings churning the air. The force of the wingbeats was so strong it fanned the flames of the fire. Some of the creatures were wounded, some perished. Other reptilians were swooping out of the fortress, scattering to the four corners of the earth, chanting spells to speed them along faster, make them invisible, anything to get out and get away…. They were afire as they flew, burning, perhaps dying.

  From inside his place of safety, Simon could only listen.

  There was the ho
wl of fire.

  There were Serpentine screams of death, until finally the heat and the fire receded.

  And the shielding barrier collapsed.

  As it fell, the smoke was fanned back; the Great Hall could be seen again. The palace was in collapse. There were no living Pyrothraxes left on the premises. Several hulking lizard bodies lay inert, burning, on the torn and upturned floor. But no breathing reptilians remained. Only their fires were here, dying out in a hundred places. The firelings had burned themselves out. Fires of many colors: white, blue, black, and other hues intertwined and then faded.

  It must have been a stunning battle.

  “You saved us,” said Aldric to Alaythia.

  “No,” she answered. “I couldn’t have done it alone. Something was helping me.”

  Simon heard a violent cracking noise from a myriad of places. Looking up, he saw cracks spreading across the walls, reaching out, branching, and linking together. The entire palace was cracking into pieces, the walls crumbling in great sheets and splinters.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” said Aldric, “or we’ll be buried.”

  From the smashing, falling walls, a large animal pushed through, galloping into the ruins—it was Valsephany. Aldric grabbed her reins. “Stay with us,” he told her. “Lead us out.”

  The horse trotted through the smoke.

  The air was dark from the falling debris, but Alaythia managed to regain the path. She held Simon’s hand and pulled him out into the light along with his father, just as her own dream had predicted.

  They found themselves outside, in a London just awakening from a terrible earthquake.

  Only a few people were out on the street.

  The White Palace could now be seen behind them in all its glory: tall, with smooth towers tapering beside a domed center structure. It was now disintegrating. Towers fell. Huge blocks of granite tumbled from its walls. The collapsing palace hammered the streets.

  Simon felt a great relief. The threat was over.

  Only it wasn’t.

  Eeer, tik, tik, tik. Eeer, tik, tik, tik.

  Out of the cloud of debris, a soaring predator tore loose. It was Tyrannique, the Paris Dragon, and though he bled fire in many places, he wanted one last victim. The boy.

  Wings knifing the air in a powerful charge, the dying Dragon dove for Simon. Quick as a dream, Aldric spun with his crossbow and fired a shot into the blue-yellow flesh. The shot hit Tyrannique in the wing, but the Dragon surged forward, in a straight line toward Simon.

  But before he finished his attack, the Dragon was struck by black lightning. Hiding somewhere in the rubble, the Black Dragon had put his claws together, and ebony lightning shot from his hands. It struck Tyrannique square in the face. The Parisian Dragon howled and veered away, into the clouds, exploding in blue-and-gold flame. The last blow had been struck.

  The explosion spread in the sky and then burned out. Simon turned to look for the Black Dragon with gratitude, but the creature had vanished from sight in the rubble.

  They searched the scene for the old Dragon. But there was no sign of him. None at all.

  Wherever he was, they were safe because of him.

  They stood on the torn-up street, and the horse led them away.

  The land was peaceful, and they wandered on, recovering from the fury of it all.

  Simon looked up tiredly, walking through the wounded city. “Cleaning up isn’t part of our duties, is it?”

  A rain began to fall where blue-yellow clouds marked the Parisian Dragon’s death.

  Now bits of black rain began to come down. The rain spattered the street, leaving huge marks of darkness. Simon watched with amazement as the black rain changed, and dark green droplets spattered the ground.

  It was raining paint.

  He looked ahead of him, and the city now seemed like a giant canvas, peppered with spatters of black and dark green, and now specks of red. He wanted to laugh.

  The world under his feet was turning into a huge abstract painting.

  Alaythia laughed in disbelief. For her, it was like landing in a childhood dream she had long forgotten. And when she smiled at him, Aldric could not help but respond.

  All those painterly meals the Dragon of Paris consumed had made his death a spectacular rain of magic.

  Aldric pulled a huge black umbrella from his horse’s saddlebag. He raised the umbrella over them and they huddled together, protected.

  “I never would’ve seen it,” Aldric said to his son. “I never would’ve seen what you saw in the Black Dragon. There was a conscience there. You saw something in him.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “It wasn’t. It saved us all. I’ve never seen one like him,” said Aldric heavily. “It will change everything….”

  Simon looked off thoughtfully.

  “Simon,” said Aldric, preparing himself. “I need to say something—”

  Simon cut him off. “I know.”

  “I just want to tell you—”

  Simon looked at him with a weary smile. “I know.”

  And that was that.

  Aldric grinned at him. They kept walking, thankful that the world was still in one piece, impatient for rest, and wondering where they would be going next.

  Together.

  Epilogue

  THE WORLD NEEDS ITS KNIGHTS

  ON THE COAST OF New England, within sight of the Ebony Hollow lighthouse, is an old castle built by the British when they lived here. In that castle, on many days of the year, you will find the family St. George.

  They are not an ordinary family.

  The man of the house is a Knight of the old Order of Dragonhunters, by the name of Aldric St. George. His wife is no longer alive, but her spirit lives on in the tools of his trade. His son is a handsome and courageous young man named Simon St.

  George.

  Their faithful friends include a beautiful woman named Alaythia who practices the art of magic. She spends her time searching for the location of a certain black Dragon from China, who, it seems from all the evidence, just might be an ally, if he still lives.

  They are an odd assortment of broken, and now repairing, souls. They have each been through great and terrible trials together. They will see more.

  Inside the gentle and hospitable castle is a spellbook, salvaged from a great battle. It contains the deathspells of all the Dragons left known to man. The book will be put to use in the coming days.

  In the distance, the old lighthouse school warms the coast, and old man Denman and his wife still run it, sometimes welcoming Simon for an evening meal, if they can tolerate the energetic English fox that comes with him. During the day, from the high point in the lighthouse, the boys of the school can see the little fortress and can wonder what Simon is learning at home.

  Beside the castle, on the green rolling hills, is a field fit to order for a great and noble horse, and not long ago, it was joined by another.

  “A Knight should have a steed,” said Aldric to his son.

  Simon looked at him, his gratitude apparent. A horse of his own.

  The white stallion, with its black mane, stood in the field and bowed to Simon, one leg thrust forward in a show of loyalty and respect.

  Before the stallion, in the field, were set a great shield, a helmet, and elegant armor. Simon’s sword was stabbed into the ground to greet him.

  “Simon St. George,” said Aldric, unsheathing his sword and laying it upon each of Simon’s shoulders, “in the name of Saint Michael and Saint George, in gratitude for your loyalty and service, and in honor of your courage and fortitude, I hereby Knight thee. May the light from your sword drive darkness from this world.”

  Simon rose and regarded Aldric and Alaythia.

  If you had seen him in that moment, you would have seen the very perfection of pride. You would have seen a boy who was now comfortable in his own skin.

  He was not yet a man; but the steps he had left were short.

  He was a Knight. A D
ragonhunter. And with his stallion, his sword, and his shield, and with his father beside him, he would conquer evil.

  He never did find out the name of the girl in the novelty shop. But life is long. There was time yet. There was hope.

  His father looked at him, and if you had seen him in that moment, you would have seen the very perfection of admiration. A lone warrior no more.

  You have many chances to change your life, but they do run out. A life is never set in stone, but grows like the roots of a tree in fertile ground. Still, over time, the strength to find new ground leaves you.

  Aldric thought his chances had ended, but they had not.

  He would make the most of his time now. Life is short. Time passes fast.

  It was possible no adventures were left for Simon and Aldric except this one: forging a friendship between father and son.

  Perhaps there were no more Dragons left.

  One can hope.

  Hope, after all, is the fire that burns forever.

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks to:

  Ruth Katcher, Ori Marmur, Bryan Burk,

  Peter Guber, and of course, my family

  About the Author

  JASON HIGHTMAN is a writer and filmmaker. He spends most of his time in Los Angeles, where there are many dragons.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Credits

  Cover art © 2004 by Vince Natale

  Cover design by Hilary Zarycky

  Copyright

  THE SAINT OF DRAGONS. Copyright © 2004 by Jason Hightman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.