The Last Dragonslayer

by Jasper Fforde

  ‘I have no money,’ I implored, ‘not even a twenty-moolah note. But to know the answer to my question I will gladly give you everything I possess.’

  ‘Which is? An anagram of Moonlight is thin gloom, and the average Troll can eat fifteen legs at one sitting.’

  ‘A 1958 Volkswagen Beetle with an MOT that expires next week, a few books and half a piano.’

  William of Anorak looked up and stopped scribbling in his pad.

  ‘The most favourite boy’s name is James; the least favourite is Gzxkls. How can you have half a piano?’

  ‘It’s a long story, but basically I’m a musical duet penfriend with another foundling in San Mateo.’

  He continued to stare at me.

  ‘A red setter is so stupid even the other dogs notice, and cats aren’t really friendly, they’re just cosying up to the dominant life-form as a hedge against extinction. You’re a foundling? From where?’

  ‘The Lobsterhood.’

  A smile crossed his grubby unshaven features.

  ‘You’re that Jennifer Strange? The one at Kazam with the Quarkbeast?’

  I nodded and pointed at the Quarkbeast, who was sitting in the car. He had once idly chewed his way through a locomotive’s drive wheel, and hadn’t been allowed on railway property since.

  ‘In the first photograph ever taken,’ said William, staring at me thoughtfully, ‘someone blinked, and they had to begin again from scratch. It set the industry back two decades, and the problem has still not been properly rectified. You were left in that Beetle when a foundling, yet you would give it to me?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Then I will tell you the answer to your question for free. You will find Brian Spalding, worshipful Dragonslayer, appointed by the Mighty Shandar himself and holder of the sacred sword Exhorbitus—’

  ‘Yes, yes?’

  ‘Probably at the Duck and Ferret in Wimpole Street.’

  I thanked him profusely and shook his hand so hard I could hear his teeth rattle.

  ‘There’s one other thing!’

  He beckoned me to lean closer. I did so and he whispered:

  ‘The largest deposit of natural marzipan ever discovered is a two-metre-thick seam lying beneath Cumbria. The so-called “Carlisle Drift” is worth a potential 1.8 trillion moolah, and may provide light and heat for two million homes when it comes on stream in 2002. Not a lot of people know that. Good luck, Miss Strange, and may you always walk in the shadow of the Lobster.’

  Brian Spalding – Last Dragonslayer

  * * *

  I thanked William of Anorak and hurried off towards the Duck and Ferret. It was shut so I sat down on a bench, next to a very old man who had skin like a pickled walnut and eyes sunk deep in his head. He wore a neat blue suit and homburg hat, and carried a cane with a silver top. He looked at me with great interest.

  ‘Good afternoon, young lady,’ said the old man in a chirpy voice, tipping his head back to allow the warmth of the sun to fall upon his face.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I replied, always meeting politeness with politeness as Mother Zenobia had taught me.

  ‘Is that your Quarkbeast?’ he asked, his eyes following the creature as it sniffed suspiciously at a statue of St Grunk the Probably Fictitious.

  ‘He’s totally harmless,’ I replied. ‘All that stuff about Quarkbeasts eating babies is just fear-mongering by the papers.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied, ‘I used to have a Quarkbeast once myself. Fiercely loyal creatures. Where did you find him?’

  ‘It was in Starbucks,’ I replied, ‘about two years ago. The manager said to me: “Your Quarkbeast is making the customers pass out in shock” and I turned round and Quark, there he was, staring at me. So I said he wasn’t mine, and they went to call the Beastcatcher, and I know what they do with Quarkbeasts, so I said he was mine after all and took him home. He’s been with me ever since.’

  The old man nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I rescued mine from a Quarkbaiting ring,’ he said, shuddering at the thought. ‘Frightfully cruel sport. He could chew his way through a London bus lengthwise in under eight seconds. A good friend. Does yours speak?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. I’m not even sure if he’s a boy or a girl. I wouldn’t know how to tell, and quite frankly, it might be undignified to try and find out.’

  ‘They don’t procreate in the usual manner,’ said the old man, ‘they utilise quantum reproduction – they are just suddenly there, seemingly out of nothing.’

  I didn’t know this, and told him so.

  ‘Quarkbeasts always arrive in pairs,’ added the old man knowledgeably, ‘somewhere there will be an anti-Quarkbeast – a mirror image of your own. If paired Quarkbeasts come together they disappear in a flash of energy. Remember the explosion last year in Hythe, which they claimed was a gas explosion?’

  ‘Yes?’ I said slowly, for the explosion had left a crater twelve metres deep in a housing estate, and fourteen dead.

  ‘It was an unlucky confluence of Quarkbeasts. A separated pair came together quite by chance. They’re lonely creatures – they have to be. Misunderstood, too.’

  This was indeed true. I’d owned mine for six months before the lingering suspicion that I might be eaten alive gave way to genuine affection.

  The old man paused to give a coin to a beggar-lady collecting for the Troll Wars Widows, then added: ‘Are you waiting for something?’

  ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘Ah!’ he replied. ‘Me also.’ He sighed deeply and looked at his watch. ‘I wait for many years, but still Jennifer Strange does not appear.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I said with a start. ‘Who did you say you were waiting for?’

  ‘Jennifer Strange.’

  ‘But I’m Jennifer Strange!’

  ‘Then,’ replied the old man with the ghost of a smile, ‘my wait is over!’

  By the time I had recovered from this shock, the old man had jumped to his feet and was walking swiftly along the pavement.

  ‘Quickly, quickly,’ he muttered. ‘I wondered when you were going to turn up!’

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked, somewhat perplexed. ‘And how in the world did you know my name?’

  ‘I,’ said the old man, stopping and turning so suddenly that I almost ran into him, ‘am Brian Spalding!’

  ‘The Dragonslayer?’

  ‘At your service.’

  ‘Then I must ask you—’ I began, but the old man interrupted me again and crossed the road in front of a bus that had to swerve to avoid him.

  ‘You’ve taken your time in getting here, young lady. I thought you would arrive when I was about sixty years of age to give me a bit of a retirement, but no – look here.’

  He stopped and showed me his face, which was wrinkled and soft like a prune.

  ‘Look at me now! I am over a hundred and twelve!’

  He strode towards the opposite pavement and waved his cane angrily at a taxi that had to do an emergency stop just inches from his shins.

  ‘Confound you, sir!’ he shouted at the cabby. ‘Driving like a madman!’

  ‘But how do you know my name?’ I asked again, still confused.

  ‘Simplicity itself,’ he replied. ‘The Mighty Shandar wrote a list of all the Dragonslayers that were to come, so the outgoing Dragonslayer would know the new apprentices and not employ some twerp who would bring dishonour to the craft. You were chosen for your calling over four centuries ago, my girl, and rightly or wrongly, you will take your vows.’

  ‘But my name’s not actually Jennifer Strange,’ I said, ‘I’m a foundling – I don’t know what my name is!’

  ‘It’s Jennifer Strange enough for the Mighty Shandar,’ he said cheerily.

  ‘I’m going to be a Dragonslayer?’

  ‘Goodness me, no!’ chuckled the old man. ‘You are to be an apprentice Dragonslayer.’

  ‘But I only started looking for you this morning—’

  The old man stopped again and fixed
me with his bright blue eyes.

  ‘Think of a huge feat of magic.’

  I thought of moving Hereford’s cathedral two feet to the left.

  I nodded.

  ‘Good. Then double it. Double it again, multiply by four and then double that. The answer is one tenth the size of the Old Magic involved here.’

  ‘But I’m not sure I want to be a Dragonslayer’s apprentice.’

  ‘Sometimes choice is a luxury that fate does not afford us, Miss Strange. We’re here.’

  We had stopped outside a small house which was only one of many in a row of ordinary-looking terraced dwellings. The building had two large green garage doors and painted on the road outside was a faded yellow hatched box with the words ‘Dragonslayer, No Parking’ in large letters. The old man opened the front door and beckoned me in.

  He turned on the lights and I looked around, amazed at what I saw. The room was large and airy and seemed to be living quarters and garage all rolled into one. At one side of the room was a kitchenette and living area with a large table, sofa and TV, and in the other half, parked in front of the double doors, was an old Rolls-Royce armoured car. The car was of heavy riveted construction and had emergency lights like a police car. Two twin-tone sirens were bolted to the turret and all over the vehicle were sharp copper spikes, protruding in every direction like a large metallic porcupine’s, and which reminded me of the armour that Dragonslayers and their steeds donned all those years ago.

  ‘A Rolls!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘It is never a Rolls, young lady,’ admonished the old man. ‘Neither is it a Roller. It is a Rolls-Royce, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Times have moved on a bit, you know,’ he went on. ‘I started with a horse but changed to the Rolls-Royce when they demolished the stables to make way for the shopping precinct. I’ve never used it although it remains in tip-top mechanical condition.’

  I followed the old man over to the far wall, upon which hung a long lance, whose sharpened tip glistened dangerously, and on a table beneath it lay an exquisite sword whose long blade ended in a large hilt, bound with leather and adorned with a ruby the size of an orange.

  ‘Exhorbitus,’ said the old man in a soft, reverential voice. ‘The sword of a Dragonslayer. Only a Dragonslayer or his apprentice may touch it. One finger of an unauthorised hand and “Voof!”’

  ‘Voof?’ I queried.

  ‘Voof,’ repeated the old man.

  ‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, who understood something important when he heard it.

  ‘Someone tried to steal it once,’ continued the Dragonslayer. ‘Broke in at the back. Touched the ruby and was carbonised in less time than it takes to wink.’

  I withdrew my hands quickly and the old man smiled.

  ‘Watch this,’ he said, picking up the sword with a deftness that belied his old age. He swished it about elegantly and then made a swipe in the direction of a chair. I thought he had missed, but he hadn’t. He prodded at the chair and it fell into two pieces, neatly cleaved by the keen blade.

  ‘Impressive?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s power-assisted,’ he explained. ‘I’d never be able to heft it at my age. If you thought that was cool, watch this.’

  He laid the point of the sword on the concrete floor and leaned gently on the hilt. The blade sank slowly into the hard floor as though it were mud. When it was embedded a good ten centimetres the old man stopped pushing. It stood upright in the floor, humming gently to itself and still sinking – carried by its own weight as it cut through the concrete.

  ‘As sharp as nothing else on this earth. It will cut through carbide steel as though it were a wet paper bag.’

  ‘Why is it called Exhorbitus?’

  ‘Probably because it was very expensive.’

  He withdrew Exhorbitus from the floor and replaced it on the desk while I looked around. All over the walls were lurid paintings of Dragons showing how they attacked, how they drank, how they fed and the best way to sneak up on them.

  I pointed to a large oil painting of an armoured Dragonslayer doing battle with a flame-breathing Dragon. It was quite graphic and very exciting. You could almost sense the heat and the danger, the sharpness of the talons and the clanking of armour.

  ‘You?’

  The old man laughed.

  ‘Dear me, no! That painting is of Augustus of Delft doing battle with Janus during Mu’shad Waseed’s failed Dragon campaign. He was doing frightfully well right up until the moment he was sliced into eight more or less equal parts.’

  He turned to me more seriously.

  ‘I’ve been the Dragonslayer for seventy-two years. I’ve not even seen a Dragon, let alone killed one. The last person foolish enough to actually launch an attack was Belinda of Froxfield just before the Mighty Shandar finalised the Dragonpact. Since then there has been only one living Dragonslayer down the ages – seven since Belinda – and none of us has ever so much as set foot inside a Dragonland. But that’s not to say we don’t know a thing or two about Dragons.’

  He tapped his head.

  ‘All the knowledge since the first Dragonslayer went to do battle is up here. Every plan, every attack, every outcome, every failure. All this information has been here ready and waiting just in case. But it has never been needed! Not one Dragon has ever transgressed the Dragonpact. Not one single burnt village, one stolen cow or an eaten farmer. I’m sure you’ll agree that the Mighty Shandar has done a pretty good job.’

  ‘But that’s all changed.’

  His face fell.

  ‘Indeed. Events, I fear, are soon to come to fruition. There is a prophecy in the air. It’s like cordite and paraffin. Can you smell it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Must be the drains, then. The pre-cogs say I am to kill the last Dragon, and I will not falter in the face of my destiny. Shortly I am to do battle with Maltcassion, but I cannot do it alone. I need an apprentice. That person is you.’

  ‘But he is the last of the Dragons!’ I cried, feeling exasperated at Mr Spalding’s lack of interest. ‘Such a noble beast should not go the way of the Buzonji or the Lesser Shridloo—’

  ‘My child,’ said the old man, dabbing his mouth with a spotted handkerchief, ‘the Dragon’s time is over. Even the dullest of seers can’t help but hear the premonition of the Dragon’s death. It’s being transmitted on the low-alpha; I’m surprised the dogs can’t hear it. Next Sunday at noon I’m to go and destroy him, and you must help me prepare.’

  ‘But there’s no reason for you to go up there,’ I pointed out. ‘He has not transgressed the Dragonpact in any way.’

  The Dragonslayer shrugged.

  ‘There are still four days left; much can and will happen. This is bigger than me and bigger than you. Whether we like it or not, we will play our parts. Few of us understand the reason we are placed here; be grateful that you have so clear an objective.’

  I digested his words slowly. I still did not hold that the Dragon had to die, nor that premonitions are certain to come true. But on the other hand it struck me that the Dragonslayer’s apprentice might be well placed to ensure the Dragon’s survival. If I was to be anything other than a passive observer in the next few days I was going to have to move fast.

  ‘How do I become your apprentice?’

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d never ask,’ he replied, looking at the clock nervously. ‘It usually takes ten years of study, commitment, deep learning and the attainment of a spiritual understanding of oneness worthy of a Dragonslayer’s apprentice, but since we are in a bit of a hurry I can give you the accelerated course.’

  ‘And how long does that take?’

  ‘About a minute. Place your hand on this book.’

  He had taken a battered volume from a small cupboard and held it out to me. Etched in faded gold upon the cover was: The Dragonslayer’s Manual. I placed my hand on the worn leather and felt a feeling like electricity tremble in my finger
s, run up my arm and tingle along my spine. As I closed my eyes images of battle entered my head, memories of Dragonslayers long dead, passing on their wisdom of centuries to me. I could see the Dragons in front of me, their faces, their ways, their habits; I felt the beat of a wing and heard the whoosh of fire as a Dragon set fire to a village. I was upon a horse, galloping across a grassy plain, a Dragon bellowing a fearful yell and igniting an oak tree, which burst into fire like a bomb. Then I was in an underground cavern, listening to a Dragon telling me stories of long ago, of a home far from here, a land with three moons and a violet sky. He spoke of a hope that humans and Dragons could live together, of old things passing away and a new life without strife. Then we were on the coast, running along the beach with a Dragon splashing beyond the surf line. I could see the images, and smell them and almost taste them . . . when, abruptly, it all stopped.

  ‘Time’s up!’ said the old man, grinning. ‘Did you get it all?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Then answer me this: who was the second Dragonslayer?’

  ‘Octavius of Dewchurch,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘And the name of the last horse in my service?’

  ‘Tornado.’

  ‘Correct. You have the knowledge. Now swear on the name of the Mighty Shandar and the Old Magic that ties you to your calling, that you will uphold every rule of the Dragonpact until you are less than dust.’

  ‘I swear,’ said I.

  There was a crackle of electricity and a fierce wind blew up inside the building. Overhead I heard a peal of thunder and somewhere a horse whinnied. The Quarkbeast Quarked loudly and ran under the table as a globe of ball lightning flew down the chimney, floated across the room and evaporated with a bright flash and the pungent smell of ozone.

  As the wind subsided, the old man became unsteady and sat on a nearby chair.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ I asked him.

  ‘I am sorry if I have deceived you, my child,’ he murmured softly, the brisk energy that he seemed imbued with not more than two minutes ago having left him entirely.