Our white dragon was the middle one of three of its kind, flying in a diagonal formation — a green one ahead and above us, a red one behind and below. From the snatches of ripe Caledonian curses coming from ahead and above, I identified the figure on the back of the green dragon to be Sir Gawain. The red dragon behind and below us seemed to be the only one not carrying a knightly passenger. When I dared to glance over the white dragon’s flanks, the patchy view of the ground showed us to be approaching a major habitation, shortly revealing itself, by several recognisable landmarks, as the city of Cardiff. From the little I knew of dragons, this made perfect sense. As a species they were instinctively drawn to major populations, those being the best places to satisfy their basic needs of flesh, riches and ruin. The denial of such simple dragon pleasures was presumably the work upon which Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain were engaged; work in which a sword would prove an essential tool.
There was also the matter of the red dragon to contend with; a task which, by process of elimination, fell to me. As clearly as if I had heard them only yesterday, the words of Sir Pellinore came back to me. Dracontias. The dragon stone. Lodged in its brain. Cut that out with a blade to the top of the head.
And so to work.
Now that it had removed me from its rudder, the white dragon was flying relatively straight and steady. The amulet was still lodged around its tail. Well, it would just have to remain there for the time being. Releasing my handhold, I drew myself into a crouching position, loosened the drawstrings of my bag, and took one of the four swords from its scabbard. I did not dare throw the sword directly to Sir Lancelot. But perhaps there was a way of simultaneously securing it for him to retrieve, and of conveying me to the red dragon?
“Sir Lancelot!” I shouted. He turned from his position at the dragon’s neck and almost let go of it, so startled was he by my inexplicable presence.
“Lucas? What the hell?!”
“I shall explain at a more convenient time!” I yelled. “I have brought you a sword! Hold on tight!” Sir Lancelot nodded, and redoubled his grip.
The red dragon held its position behind and below the white. A jump would not be enough to cover the distance without some form of propulsion. I turned again towards Sir Lancelot and took aim for the centre spot on our white dragon’s back, where the flesh was slightly softer. I threw the sword as hard as I could. It struck home like a javelin, embedding itself by several inches. The beast howled in fury. Its entire back convulsed like a trampoline, catapulting me backwards past its tail, through the air, and directly down into the flight path of the red dragon.
This was when I detected the first flaw in my plan. The part of the red dragon to which I was flying head first was its jaws; jaws that were quick to open wide in anticipation of the airborne fast food heading in their direction. In one fluid movement, I pulled another sword from my pack and, just as the jaws closed around me, thrust the point up into the roof of the dragon’s mouth and wedged the hilt behind its lower teeth. I pulled myself up out of the mouth by using its nostrils as a handhold, a jet of flame shooting past my escaping feet, and took up position behind its mighty neck.
Naturally the red dragon took great umbrage at being denied a meal in such a brazen manner, and started upon a series of dives, ducks and rolls to try and dislodge me, not to mention the sword stuck in its mouth. I dug another sword into its neck for purchase, which did nothing to improve its mood. I realised with satisfaction that by dint of similar sword-work, Sir Lancelot’s white dragon had lost altitude and was now flying level and within jumping distance of my red one. Pulling out the sword from the neck in front of me, I cut open the top of the red dragon’s head and prised out the Dracontias stone in a shower of blood and brain.
The bat-like wings stopped beating. The red dragon let out a gasping groan somewhere between a roar and a sigh. The carcass dropped away beneath my feet. I let go of the sword, and jumped up for the white dragon as the red plummeted down to earth above the river Taff. The amulet had now slipped to the very tip of the white dragon’s tail, and was on the point of being flung off into the air when I grabbed it and pulled it back over my head. I touched it with my hand and teleported over to Sir Gawain.
In contrast to Sir Lancelot, he was not the least bit surprised at my sudden manifestation. “About bloody time an’ all,” he shouted, and stopped boxing the green dragon’s ears to take the final sword from me. Before I could counsel caution, Sir Gawain sliced open the head and removed the dragon stone. We immediately pitched forwards as the dead beast fell through the sky.
Below us lay a sports ground, the centre circle of the field marked out like a target. A football match was taking place, and sounds of pandemonium rose up to greet our imminent arrival. “Watch out below!” cried Sir Gawain in response. “Happy landings, Lucas!”
I was not sure if the amulet would work for two, but this seemed like the ideal time to find out. I took hold of Sir Gawain’s shoulder and touched the jewel, thinking of Sir Lancelot and the white dragon. Immediately we were beside him at the neck of the beast. This time, Sir Gawain had the good grace to be mildly taken aback.
“What happened there?” he said, as we took up hasty handholds.
“An amulet of teleportation,” I said. “I am sure it will work for three of us if we link hands.”
“Not an option, Lucas,” said Sir Lancelot. “Look.” He pointed below. We were following the course of the river Taff over green parkland, the city centre of Cardiff fast approaching ahead of us. The white dragon, wounded and exhausted, was flying low, its belly skimming the tops of the tallest trees, turning its head to roast them as we passed.
“I can’t let it reach the city,” said Sir Lancelot.
“Then scunner the beastie now and be done with it!” said Sir Gawain.
“There are too many people in the park, I won’t risk bringing it down here.”
“Where, then?” I said.
“The river. It’s the safest place.”
“And how are you gonna persuade it to do that?” said Sir Gawain. “I dunno about you, but I’m fresh out of sugar lumps.”
Sir Lancelot smiled. At me.
VI
‘The benefit of hindsight’ has always struck me as an inadequate turn of phrase. In my experience, whenever one considers events from a hind-sighted position, such a perspective rarely provides one with anything resembling benefit. An example: with hindsight, Sir Lancelot’s plan, though it sprang from the purest motives and was sound enough in theory, was a decidedly different matter when put into practice. At the time, however, while the widespread destruction that followed was as far from our minds as a worst case scenario could have been, it did seem the most practical option.
For argument’s sake, I am willing to concede that it just might be possible to steer a dragon by interfering with the movement of its tail. After all, I had recently witnessed this first hand when I had landed on the rudder-like appendage. That tail, however, had belonged to a decidedly different dragon. For one thing, it had been carrying the weight of two knights intent on reducing its lifespan, not three. For another, it had yet to endure the strategic sword strokes of Sir Lancelot, delivered with the express purpose of bringing it closer to ground level.
And so, far from yielding to my attempts to twist his tail to the left, in order to steer right and downwards to the proposed landing in the river Taff, the dragon made it clear that he would not co-operate with such a manoeuvre. He uttered a deep rumbling bellow like an iron table leg being scraped across a tiled floor, banking left towards the city centre, focusing all his remaining strength on shaking off his stubborn parasites.
My hands were still clasped around the tail. This sudden movement threw me off his hind-quarters and into space. So it was that I once more found myself clinging on to the very tip of the white dragon’s tail with both hands, and thus unable to reach for either Sir Gawain’s outstretched hand, or the amulet around my neck. “Sir Lancelot!” I shouted, “The dragon is proving
somewhat un-steerable!”
“I’m going to bring him down, now!” he replied, from the creature’s neck. “Hold on, you two!”
The dragon, for all the world as if he understood our plans, chose that moment to start rolling from side-to-side. Such displacement mattered little to me in my already disorientated position, but it was enough to send the sword flying out of Sir Lancelot’s hands and almost dislodge Sir Gawain from the dragon’s haunches. My weight pulled the dragon’s tail down almost vertically, so that my line of sight was clear. This proved to be a mixed blessing, as it allowed me to see that the dragon was flying straight towards a clutch of trees. Branches whipped past me in a flurry of foliage, to reveal the walls of Cardiff Castle dead ahead.
The dragon’s altitude rose to a level only slightly higher than those walls. Unfortunately for me, it was slightly less than a tail-length higher. I waited until I was close enough to smell the moss on the stones, then tucked my legs up into a swinging crouch. The dragon cleared the walls and, by the seat of my trousers, so did I. The castle grounds were packed with tourists, many of whom were gathered around a guide, his back turned to our rapid approach. At the sudden appearance of this unadvertised vision of the mythic past, the crowd screamed and scattered, to the initial bemusement of the guide, until he turned and gazed with horror upon the storybook spectacle bearing down upon him. The dragon did not disappoint. It sent a roaring jet of flame running along the ground towards the hapless fellow, who closed his eyes and prayed, possibly for a timely rescue by a knight of old. I did the best that I could, pulling hard on the tail and diverting the dragon’s line of fire at the last second, leaving the guide un-scorched.
The dragon was not flying high enough to clear the further castle wall so it simply went through the top of it, charging head first into the stonework. I closed my eyes as the world turned to a maelstrom of rubble around me, but still I clung on, hoping that my fellow knights had managed to do likewise. But when I opened my eyes, it was to see Sir Gawain tumbling past me, landing spread-eagled on the grass of the outer castle lawn. The shadow of the white dragon passed over cars and buses, which screeched and smashed to a horn-honking standstill.
Energised by lightening its load, the dragon increased its speed, flying towards the glass-fronted façade of a large hotel. The glass smashed and the dragon half flew, half hopped through the restaurant, squashing a table of diners and setting fire to the bar. With another explosion of glass we emerged from the other side — now minus Sir Lancelot.
The dragon flew down a side street and out into the main pedestrianised shopping centre, exhausted and blind with rage. It bounced from one side of the street to the other, gouging out great chunks from the side of buildings. Glass and masonry showered down on the people below, while I clutched the dragon’s tail for dear life. The pedestrianised area came to an end mere yards away. After that, running along the front of the castle was more traffic, more panicked masses fleeing for cover. Tackling the dragon down here would only add to the sum total of chaos and casualties. The river was still the best place for it. Somehow, I had to lure it there.
I released my grip on the dragon’s tail and let myself fall to the street below. Finally unburdened, the dragon roared with triumph and landed several yards ahead of me, where it wasted no time in ransacking a hamburger outlet on the corner of the street, feasting on the terrified customers within. I got painfully to my feet to scan the skyline, and found the very vantage point I was looking for. A double decker bus, of the open-topped tourist variety, stood on the nearest side of the bridge where the river passed through the city. This bus, like the cars stopped at haphazard intervals in the intervening stretch of road, had been hastily abandoned.
The distance between dragon and bus was too great to rely wholly on the amulet. If I was to successfully use myself as bait, the dragon would have to see me, and give chase. Quite what I would do when it caught up with me, given that I was fresh out of swords by now, was a problem that would have to wait in line.
Now that the dragon had started to feed, distracting it from its dinner would be no easy task. But if there is one thing a dragon loves more than food, it is money. To my left stood a bank, so I touched the amulet, and concentrated on the vault that would surely lie within. Immediately I was surrounded by shelves containing tightly wrapped bundles of notes, and despaired. The currency of the modern age would mean nothing to the dragon’s primeval eye. Then my foot nudged a pile of small sacks. I untied one and smiled, picking up the bag of pound coins and teleporting to an area of road several metres away from the feasting beast.
I dipped my hand into the bag of coins. My fingers closed around a cool, heavy handful. The dragon’s head was stuck through the hole it had made in the burger bar window. “Excuse me!” I shouted at its rear. When there was no response, I followed this with a “Dragon!” The dragon reversed on its hind legs. I was not at all sure of the correct tone, so I resorted to one I had often heard dog owners employ in the retrieval of a puppy. “Here boy!” I whistled. “Come on! Over here!” The dragon pulled its head out of the window, munching on a leg. “I have some nice, shiny riches for you. See?” I let the coins trickle through my fingers. The dragon made a few darting steps towards me, and I threw the rest of the handful into the air like a careless sower. The dragon twitched in delight at the clinking pitter patter of the coins as they fell. It snorted and pawed at the tarmac, sizing me up with a lizard stare. Then with a roar it bounded towards me.
I tarried not. I ran up the street with all my might, clutching the bag, while a sound like the unfolding of a giant umbrella behind me told me the dragon had taken to its wings. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled with heat. I jumped to the left as a spear of flame passed over my right shoulder. I leaped onto the bonnet of a car and ran across its roof. The bridge and the bus were still several hundred yards away. My plan was working, in that the dragon was building up a good head of speed, but it would all be for nothing if it caught up with me too soon. I still did not dare to use the amulet, for fear that my sudden disappearance would cause the dragon to slow down, and squander the momentum I was hoping to use to my advantage.
My neck hairs tingled again. This time I ducked and could not stop myself from falling forwards, losing my balance and sprawling onto my hands and knees. I twisted around with desperate haste and reached for the amulet, even as a jet of red hot flame poured towards my face.
It froze an inch from my nose, harmless as a carnival streamer.
Once again, the bizarre time dilation was upon me. Once again, only I seemed to be unaffected by it. The dragon hung mute and still above me, its gaping jaws ablaze, like an exhibit in a particularly well-funded museum. This time I did not allow myself the luxury of bewilderment. But as I got to my feet to run, something in a window display to my right caught my eye. The shop specialised in Celtic crafts and souvenirs, and in amongst an ironic arrangement of cuddly stuffed dragons, an object flashed where it caught the sun. A sword. A sword standing in — I almost laughed aloud at the sight — a wooden replica of an ancient stone. I hurried inside, took the sword by the handle, and pulled it out of the stone. I sprinted the rest of the way to the bus, half-stumbled up the steps, and on to the front of the top deck.
Time flowed true around me once more, the dragon’s fire turning the spot where I had fallen into a bubbling tarmac stew. I held the sword aloft and waved it for good measure. Still flying, the dragon raised its head and, thankfully, spotted me on top of the bus. With two more wing beats the dragon bore down upon me and opened its mouth. I teleported. The dragon snapped its jaws around thin air. It had just enough time to register surprise at my sudden appearance on the top of its head before I cut through the skin and expelled its Dracontias. The dragon’s amassed speed sent it sailing over the bridge. By means of a directional thrust to its head with my feet as I jumped off it and into the air, I sent it crashing down through the side of the bridge and into the river below. I teleported safely to the river ban
k as the white dragon plunged beneath the surface with an almighty splash followed by a hiss of steam.
For a moment, all was peace and quiet. Then a thrumming, thumping sound filled the air, accompanied by a voice, brittle and tinny. I looked up to see a police helicopter, a voice loud-hailing me from within. The helicopter was one of hundreds of approaching objects. At first I marvelled that they deemed such force necessary to apprehend one old and weary knight.
Then I became aware of a darkening of the sky. Day turned to dusk, and I realised that those shapes I had taken to be other helicopters were, in fact, more dragons. Hundreds more, of every size, shape and species; an endless plague procession from the west.
“Put down your weapon!” cried the loud-hailing voice; but his instruction was superfluous. As if it weighed a hundred tonnes, the souvenir sword, bent to an L shape and thick with blood-matted dragon hair, dropped from my hand. I touched the amulet, and my mind turned to the only person in the world qualified to deal with such a carnival of monsters. With a soft, low popping sound, I disappeared.
VII
I opened my eyes to find myself beneath a canopy of trees. There was no immediate sign of Sir Pellinore, but I trusted that he would not be far away in what I strongly suspected was the place we used to call the Enchanted Forest. After a few seconds I realised, aside from my own laboured breathing, that everything was uncomfortably silent. Not a bird stirred in the trees, not a creature rustled through the scrub. Nevertheless, I was conscious of another presence around and about me, as if someone or something was following me very closely. Following; or perhaps hunting. I walked for some way in what I trusted to be the right direction, tracing the flow of a brook for lack of any other guide. Just ahead of me the stream widened into a small pool, and I knelt to drink.
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