The Last Dragon Chronicles #5: Dark Fire

by Chris d'Lacey

  She shivered and said, “I don’t want them near me.”

  He gave a nod of understanding. “Then just answer this. On Farlowe, when the Ix forced you to sculpt a model of their darkling, you left out the heart. You made the creature deliberately flawed, is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He hummed in thought. “Can you remember what you were thinking when you made that decision?”

  Lucy rolled her head to one side. “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “It might help me to understand Gwillan’s condition. These are highly intelligent beings, Lucy. Yet somehow you managed to fool them into believing the darkling was whole. Did you call on the auma of Gawain, for instance?”

  Lucy crossed her legs and flicked out a foot. “All I remember about the heart was that I didn’t want to put it into anything evil because a heart is supposed to be … a receptacle for love. While I was making it I tried to fill it with all the happy thoughts I could so that the darkling could never be entirely evil. I did think about Gawain, because he’s strong and good. Then I sort of had the idea not to put the heart in the darkling’s body anyway and … I just got away with it, I s’pose. Maybe the Ix aren’t as smart as you think?”

  David smiled at her. “Maybe not.” He stood up quickly. “Thanks. That’s really helpful. Oh, there’s something else I want to ask you as well. A really big favor, actually.”

  “OK,” she said, a little warily. She ran a hand inside her sweater and rubbed her shoulder.

  “I want you to go to Scuffenbury Hill.”

  “Scuffenbury? Why?”

  “There’s a dragon there, remember?”

  “So …?” She spread her hands.

  “I want someone I can trust to go and check it out.”

  A laugh escaped like a hiccup from her throat. “Erm …”

  “I’ll check with your mom. You’ll be chaperoned, I promise.”

  “By you?”

  “Uh-uh. I was thinking Tam Farrell.”

  Her jaw almost hit her knees. “Tam? Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met — he kind of owes me a favor.”

  She chewed her upper lip. “I can’t go anywhere with Tam.”

  David stared at her silently.

  “No,” she emphasized, looking uncomfortable. “Can’t you go?”

  He shook his head. “This is a job for a journalist — and a red-haired daughter of Guinevere.”

  Lucy played with a bouncy twist of that hair as if she’d just pulled a very short straw. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  But she laughed again, as if he must be teasing her. All the same she asked, “Is the dragon going to wake?”

  “Maybe. If it’s time.”

  “So … what would I have to do?”

  “Observe. That’s all.”

  She stretched her arms into the valley of her knees. “I don’t know. That’s kind of scary.”

  “Lucy, can you come down here, please? And if David’s with you, tell him I’m ready.”

  “You don’t have to think about it now,” he said. He knuckled her arm and stepped toward the door. “Your mom and I are going to see Henry. Do you want to come?”

  Grimacing, she dug her hands between her thighs. “I don’t like hospitals much.”

  “That’s all right. No pressure. See you later.”

  “David, wait. Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything. Sure.”

  “Yesterday, in the garden, when that light went off on your watch, you looked like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland — sort of anxious.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe I was late for a very important date.”

  “It’s not an ordinary watch though — is it?”

  He turned and answered truthfully, “No. It’s a communications device. It keeps me in touch.”

  “With the dragons? In the Arctic?”

  “With the universe,” he said, giving nothing away. “Just like you use that.” He nodded at the computer. “I’ll tell your mom you’re busy with your homework.”

  Again she stopped him. “It’s not homework,” she blurted. She traced a finger over the keyboard. Committed now, she met his gaze. His eyes were like a dragon’s: mesmerizing. “Would you be mad if I told you I was writing things?”

  Gwendolen took in a gulp of air.

  He looked at the computer screen, going through updates. “A story?”

  “No. A sort of journal. About us. Gawain. The dragons. You.”

  He glanced at Gwendolen, swishing her tail again. “No, I’d have no objection to that. I think it’s good for people to write things down. Helps you make sense of the jumble up here.” He tapped the side of his head.

  “Lucy, have you been abducted by aliens or what?” Liz called.

  Lucy’s feistiness returned at light speed. “Ugh, mothers! They’re such a pain.” Her hand moved purposefully over the mouse as she began to close the computer down. “Tell me I won’t grow up to be like her.”

  David laughed. “On the contrary, I hope you’ll grow up to be exactly like her. Can I read some of your journal? Just an extract, perhaps?”

  Lucy gritted her teeth. From a tray beside the computer she picked up a couple of sheets of paper. “All right, there’s a bit here. But if you laugh at it I’ll never speak to you again.” She slapped it to his chest and swept from the room.

  Gwendolen immediately made to follow, but a thought impulse from David kept her by the keyboard. He cast his eyes over the writing:

  Last night, before dinner, we lit a candle for our neighbor, Henry Bacon. We kept a minute’s silence in honor of his memory. Not that Henry’s dead, just … close to it, Mom says. She went to the hospital to see him yesterday. She said he was like a pale pink eggshell, still and fragile, waiting to crack. The thought of it fills my chest with pain. I can’t say Henry was a nice man. He was grumpy and annoying — and he HATED squirrels. But I will miss him all the same if he dies. Mom always said that his heart was in the right place, but Mom tends to see the best in everyone. He did let David stay with him once and he gave Alexa some fairy pictures. OK, he thinks the sun shines out of Zanna, but anyone can make a mistake.

  The thing I don’t get about Henry is this: Somehow, he’s managed to play a vital part in our understanding of dragons, despite the fact he’s never believed in them. David talked about it over dinner last night. He said we shouldn’t underestimate Henry’s “contribution.” For instance, on Henry’s study wall is a blown-up photo of a polar bear looking up from the ice. The photo was taken by Henry’s grandfather, and the bear, according to David, is none other than the one that Anders Bergstrom met/was part of/turned into. Bergstrom. Snowball. Icefire … dun dun dun. And now we find out that Henry had some photographs of dragontongue that had been burned into the walls of a cave on the Hella glacier. In other words, the grouchy old curmudgeon (love that word) had proof of the existence of dragons for years. Pity he might not live to know it.

  At the end of the last dragon era, it came to a point where there were just twelve left. Driven from their aeries by wild-hearted men who knew no better than to kill a creature they couldn’t tolerate and didn’t understand, the dragons came together and decided to surrender. They didn’t give themselves up for capture or sacrifice; they just refused to fight anymore. This, to me, is the saddest story ever. I grow tired of people who only think of dragons as fire-breathing, maiden-snatching, cave-dwelling monsters. Dragons had heart. Morals. Courage. Zanna always says they were the spiritual guardians of the Earth, and for once I agree with her. We don’t really know what happened to the twelve. The legend is they separated and flew away to isolated places, remote volcanic islands and the like, where they could live out their lives in peace, and where they could eventually die in peace. Up until yesterday, the only location I knew about was the Tooth of Ragnar, where Gawain set down. Now, if David is telling the truth, there’s one hidden underneath Glissington Tor,
close to Scuffenbury Hill, not a million miles from here. Arthur, being the scientist he is, was skeptical about it. He reminded David that Glissington Tor was excavated, a tunnel dug into its center. How could they miss anything the size of a dragon, he said? David had a really cute answer. He made his shape-shifting dragon, Groyne, stand on all fours the way a natural dragon would, then he rolled a pea between Groyne’s front legs. Voilà. The archaeologists dug under him. It’s kind of funny when you think about it….

  David rested the pages back beside the keyboard.

  Hrrr? said Gwendolen. Could she go now?

  “No. I want you to do something,” he said. “It has to remain a secret, Gwendolen.”

  The little dragon gulped as she felt his auma wave.

  “Download the whole file and translate it into dragontongue. From the beginning. All of it.”

  Then what? the little dragon hurred.

  “Store it — until Lucy’s ready.”

  Gwendolen tilted her head.

  “She’s going to put it out on the Internet,” he said.

  10 A JOURNEY NORTH

  Henry Bacon, by virtue of his prudent investments in a long-term personal health plan, had been given his own room at the exclusive, private hospital, Lightways, just a few miles south of Scrubbley. Liz and David arrived in the early afternoon and were immediately met in the reception area by a nurse who’d been attending to Henry the day before. Liz’s smile of recognition quickly dissolved when she saw the look of professional sympathy on the nurse’s face. Greeting them quietly, the nurse took them aside and said, “I’m sorry to tell you that Henry’s condition has become considerably worse overnight. We don’t expect him to see the day out.”

  Liz steepled her hands beneath her nose.

  The nurse touched her arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Can we see him?” asked David.

  “Yes, of course,” the nurse said. “Just be aware that because he’s very frail we may have to come in if things … develop. By the way, his sister, Agatha, is here. She was in Henry’s room a few minutes ago, but I think she may have gone to find a sandwich.”

  “Thank you,” Liz said, fighting off a sniff. She linked her arm through David’s and pointed down a corridor.

  “This way.”

  Henry’s bed was located on the first floor. A flowering cherry tree blocked most of the view from his double-paned window, but the room was light and airy nevertheless.

  Henry was lying peacefully on his back, his head supported by the tilt of the bed and a cluster of plain white pillows. He was dressed in a hospital gown and his arms, which lay to either side of him, were bare from the elbow down. Some kind of breathing apparatus was plugged into his nose and he appeared to be connected to a machine that was silently monitoring his heartbeat in waves, though the exact point of contact was hidden by the gown.

  Liz approached him first. She said, “Hello, Henry,” and stroked his hair across his forehead. When he didn’t respond she turned to the vase of flowers on his table and began to extract any dead leaves or stems. “This must be odd for you,” she said, as David came up and peered at the sallow-faced old man. “Do you remember the last time you saw him?”

  David nodded. “Just before I went to the Arctic.” He laid the back of his hand against Henry’s temple — and smiled.

  “What’s the matter?” said Liz.

  “He’s dreaming of polar bears. Take his hand. I’ll show you.”

  Although her look suggested she was a little unsure, Liz slid her fingers over Henry’s knuckles, surprised at how taut and bony they were.

  “Now mine,” said David, reaching across the bed.

  The instant Liz touched him her mind was set free on a stunning landscape of cracked ice floes and pressure ridges flooded by a burnt orange sun. “Oh, my goodness, where are we?” she gasped.

  “In Henry’s imagination,” said David, speaking directly into her mind. “In search of an answer to a riddle, I think. Relax. Let the images come to you. I’m going to guide him.”

  A moment later, Henry’s awareness opened up fully and his voice, as clear as the polar sky, floated into the scene. “Ah, Hella,” he said.

  “Yes,” said David. “Dream it, Henry.” And using the power of his Fain teaching, he let Henry’s thoughts pan back from the ocean, where the gigantic Hella glacier cut a path through the coastal mountains on its long imperceptible slide to the sea.

  Henry rested a moment in the cold, watching a shower of Arctic terns arrowing west toward the mainland. “I hear ticking,” he said.

  “Then follow it,” said David.

  And in his mind Henry trudged toward the sound, ice crunching to the beat of his footsteps.

  In a single, shifting moment of time David guided him to an untidy icescape, which could have been the ground-level ruins of a castle had the blocks not been chiseled by water and wind. At its farthest point was a misshapen arch. Under the arch sat a large male polar bear. The ticking was coming from between its front paws.

  Suddenly, into the scene stepped a man. He wore waxed brown trousers, a thickly padded jacket, a cream balaclava, snowshoes, and gloves. Despite the bulkiness of his Arctic clothing it was easy to see that he was tall and physically well-proportioned. At his hip, he carried a rifle. The bear turned its rigid gaze on the man. It showed no sign of suspicion or distress.

  The man drew to within twenty feet of it and stopped. He lowered his gun, then pushed back the fraying hood of his jacket and tore off his balaclava. He shook his hair loosely about his shoulders. It was straggly, almost golden, highlighted by catches of glinting frost. “You have my watch,” he said.

  The bear cast its almond eyes down at the timepiece — a pocket watch, still ticking despite the cold. “You may have it back if you come with me, Anders Bergstrom.”

  The golden-haired man looked all around him, before returning his focus to the bear. “Are you a spirit?”

  “Sometimes,” the bear said, lifting its chin. “I am Thoran, the first bear to walk this ice.”

  “And what is it you want with me — Thoran?”

  “To commingle with your auma. So that you might take me to the hearts of men. I will show you great wonders in return.”

  The man called Anders Bergstrom switched his rifle to the opposite hand. “Why me?”

  “Because of what you have seen.”

  “The writings in the caves? They are writings, aren’t they?”

  The bear pointed its black-tipped snout into the wind. “They are a record of a meeting. They are the words of dragons.”

  Anders Bergstrom laughed. Every fold of his clothing crackled as he crouched down and laid his gun upon the ice. With a finger, he drew three lines in the snow. “What does this symbol mean? I see it everywhere. Why do the Inuit fear it?”

  The polar bear shuffled its shaggy-haired feet. “There is power in the symbol. It can be used for good or evil. Once, it caused a war across the ice and came to be known as the mark of Oomara. The lines represent the lives of men, bears, and dragons. But they are not in harmony. This is why they do not meet. Yet the force which keeps the lines apart also holds them close, so that each always dreams of alliance with the others.”

  “What is this force?” the man asked boldly.

  The polar bear raised its snout. “You might call it consciousness, Anders Bergstrom. Bears would point to the colors in the sky and call it the dancing spirit of the North. Dragons would call it the breath of Godith.”

  Bergstrom ran the knuckles of his glove across his chin. “Will the lines ever meet?”

  The bear took a breath. It seemed to create the first hint of a blizzard, which ruffled the hairs around its stubby little ears. “Take off your glove,” it said.

  Bergstrom leveled his gaze.

  The bear grunted and nodded at the symbol of Oomara. The lines were beginning to glow.

  The explorer pulled off his glove. Without waiting to be asked, he laid three fingers into the lines. His hand quick
ly turned a bright translucent blue and the ice all around him shook. “Unity will come through fire,” he whispered. “Fire? In the ice? How can that be?”

  “Come with me,” said Thoran. He was standing in the archway, pointing north. Air billowed over his shoulder as he spoke. “All you have to do is pick up the watch.”

  Anders Bergstrom looked back the way he’d come. He looked for the shapes and colors of his camp, but the wind had been busy, covering his tracks.

  When he turned again, Thoran was padding away.

  Bergstrom knelt down and picked up the timepiece. He set it on his hand like a shining jewel. In shape it was nothing but a standard pocket watch. But where there had once been an antique clock face there was now an impression of a solar system whirling around inside the casing. Bergstrom snapped it shut. The ice upon his eyebrows cracked with the eager movements of his thoughts. Once more, he stared ahead at the bear. Then he threw away his other glove and stepped through the arch.

  “Mmm,” a voice grunted. It was Henry Bacon.

  David’s thought waves surged toward him. “Now you know what happened in the watch story, Henry. Now your mind can be at peace.”

  Henry grunted again. Then (to Liz’s shock) he appeared in the scene, dressed in trousers and a golfing sweater and the spotted tie that was his everyday trademark.

  Somewhere on the periphery of their entwined thoughts, a machine began to beep.

  A shift of time took Henry to the brink. One more step and he would find himself on the far side of the ice. In the distance, Thoran was waiting.

  “Henry?” Liz said, projecting her worries into her thoughts.

  “Time I was off, Mrs. P.,” he said, speaking back as if he could see her. He smiled and rubbed his hands together.

  From far away came the sound of people running.

  The old man’s eyes rose up to meet David’s. “Good to see you, boy. Hair’s a disgrace. Get yourself to a barber, eh?”

  “I’ll attend to it,” David said. “Go forward, Henry. Take your freedom. Explore, like you’ve always wanted to. Look through the archway, into the light.”