The Accidental Sorcerer

by K. E. Mills

  The skinny brown dragon stirred. Turned its head to look at him, blinking. In a single heartbeat the world turned inside out… and he was staring at himself through the dragon's single black eye. He'd looked better.

  The dragon raised its head and scented the rising breeze. Gerald, nostrils flaring, smelled smoke and fire, death and decay. A quick flutter of movement to the right caught the dragon's attention. He turned to look. A hummingbird, black and gold and unaware, paused to sup nectar from a nodding bloom in the next flowerbed. The dragon lashed out its tongue and pulled the hummingbird into the embrace of its gleaming white teeth. He felt fragile bones crack and split and hot blood course down his throat. He bent over, gagging.

  The dragon swallowed, and waited.

  Straightening slowly, smearing bile from his lips with his sleeve, Gerald inhaled a deep calming breath. Inhaled another. And another. Then he took his dragon and went hunting for Lional.

  'Right,' said Melissande. 'I've had just about enough of this.'

  Monk sighed. 'I did warn you. Look, Melissande, they'll get to us when they get to us so there's no point—'

  'There is every point! Because at the rate your precious Department's going I'll have qualified for the pension before they come to a decision!' she snapped. 'And another thing! You may be the one who said "Call me Monk" but I never answered, "Do call me Melissande". In fact if memory serves I said "Don't call me Melissande".'

  Squatting between them, Reg refluffed all her feathers and said, 'Oh, give it a rest, you two, or I'll do both of you a mischief.'

  They were sitting uncomfortably side by side by side in a drab grey waiting room outside some official chamber or other in Ottosland's antiquated Department of Thaumaturgy building. Apart from the back-breaking chairs there wasn't a stick of furniture. Neither were there windows to look through or any tedious old magazines to read. The room was cold and stuffy and not designed to succour its occupants.

  Shivering, Melissande glanced through the open door to the drab grey corridor beyond. 'Where the hell has Rupert got to? It doesn't take this long to use the lavatory'

  'Ha,' said Reg. 'He's probably been side-tracked by a moth.'

  'That's not funny! Whatever you may think of him he really loved his butterflies! He's grieving for them, you horrible bird, he's probably got his head buried in a towel right now, crying his heart out for those stupid, stupid, insects!'

  'Reg…' said Monk. 'Please. You're not helping.'

  With an effort Melissande pulled herself back from the brink of embarrassment… and didn't object when Monk took her hand in his. 'Nobody's helping,' she muttered, it was stupid to come here, we should have stayed in New Ottosland. Saint Snodgrass only knows what trouble Gerald's got himself into now. He had no business forcing me to come here. I should be at home, fighting for the people, I'm prime minister of New Ottosland and practically the queen!'

  Not that she wanted to be. She couldn't think of anything worse. I wonder if I'll have to change my name to Lional…

  'Don't you worry about Gerald,' said Reg. 'He's a wizarding prodigy. He can take care of himself.'

  Melissande exchanged a mordant glance with Monk over the top of Reg's head. Clearly the bird didn't believe her own pep talk. I don't believe it either, I'm afraid. It'll take more than a prodigy to beat Lional and his dragon. It'll take a miracle… and I'm not sure they exist.

  'Don't give up, Mel— Your Highness,' said Monk. 'The Deparment will come through for us, I know it. It's just going to take time. This is a hideously complicated situation, you know, involving five different nations, three of whom currently aren't officially talking to each other.'

  Ah, politics. I am sick to death of politics. I think I'll ban them when I'm queen. She pulled a face at Monk. 'I'm not giving up. And call me Melissande.'

  Even though he was as worried as she was, his lips quirked in a brief grin. 'Thought you'd never ask. Look, do you want me to go hunting for Rupert while—'

  The main chamber's large double doors opened. 'Come in, please,' said a discreet secretarial type dressed in sober black. 'Lord Attaby will see you now.'

  Abruptly aware of appearing less than her best, Melissande slid off the chair and lifted her chin, defiant. 'And not a moment too soon. I was just about to make a Scene.'

  As Reg hopped onto Monk's waiting shoulder she marched past the discreet secretary and into the chamber. Stalked across the room's dingy carpet, Monk and Reg at her heels, and halted in front of the long polished oak conference table on the far side of the room. There was a click behind her as the secretary closed the double doors.

  To her fury she saw the Ottosland officials at the table had been drinking tea and eating biscuits. Tea and biscuits while my kingdom is dragged to hell in a handbasket. How dare they? 'Right,' she said, glaring at the three men ranged before her. 'Which one of you is Lord bloody Attaby?'

  The man in the middle, reeking of affluence and self-importance, inclined his head fractionally. His thinning silver hair was slicked to his skull with something smelly and expensive. 'I am Lord Attaby, Minister of Thaumaturgy for the Ottosland government.'

  She looked left then right at his silent bookends. 'And these two?'

  'My colleagues,' said Lord Attaby blandly.

  'I see. And do they have names?'

  'None that are relevant to these proceedings,' said Lord Attaby. 'Madam.'

  She snorted, I'm not madam, I'm Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland and—and—Queen Presumptive.'

  Lord Attaby laced his fingers before him, frowning. 'Or so you claim.'

  'Claim?' she demanded. 'What, you think I'm lying?'

  I think you are a young foreign woman lacking both identification and requisite travel documentation who has entered this country by dubious and possibly illegal means,' said Lord Attaby, looking down his nose at her. 'And who, it would appear, has suborned one of its citizens into breaking some very, very, serious laws.'

  Monk stepped forward. 'No, she hasn't, Lord Attaby. That's all on me. And she is who she says she is, I can vouch for that. Unless you think I'm lying, too.'

  Lord Attaby's chilly expression plummeted below freezing, it would appear, Mr Markham, you have been labouring under the mistaken apprehension that your illustrious family name would afford you unlimited protection in this matter. Allow me to disabuse you of this naive—'

  The man on Lord Attaby's right lowered his raised, silencing hand. Melissande looked at him more closely; anyone who could halt an aristocrat mid-tirade was worth examining. He was extremely… nondescript. Unlike Lord Attaby, whose shirt was silk, he wore plain cotton. His watchband was leather, not gold, and he altogether lacked a pampered air. His hooded grey eyes were years older than his round, faintly lined face and mousy brown hair suggested. He didn't look like an enemy. He didn't look like a friend. More than anything he looked like a greengrocer or some other kind of inoffensive shopkeeper.

  How very odd, she thought. I wonder who he is?

  The man on Lord Attaby's left took advantage of the silence and said, 'Your part in this, Monk, will be dealt with in due course. For now let us focus on the reason for Her Highness s unorthodox appearance in the country.'

  Melissande glanced at Monk. He was subdued now and pink around the edges. 'Yes, Unc— Sir Ralph.'

  'Lord Attaby' said Monk's important relative, properly deferring. 'Do continue, sir. I believe time is a commodity in short supply'

  'Time, Lord Attaby, has pretty well run out!' Melissande said hotly. 'At least for your citizen Professor Gerald Dunwoody! I'm assuming you do care about him at least, even if you couldn't give a toss about the five dead wizards or the people of Kallarap or my people in New Ottosland, some of whom are already dead because of this string of disasters! You know, none of this would ever have happened if people like you hadn't failed to monitor Pomodor Uffitzi more carefully! If he hadn't got his hands on those dreadful grimoires, I wouldn't be standing here thaumaturgically related to a d
ragon!'

  Lord Attaby sat back. 'Does this mean your… government… accepts no responsibility for this? Are you now claiming that your brother King Lional bears no culpability whatsoever for the murder of five wizards, one of whom was an Ottoslander, or the deaths of your unfortunate citizens and his intended invasion of your peaceful neighbour?'

  She felt herself turn red. 'No,' she said curtly. 'Of course Lional's culpable. He's also crazy. I'm not making excuses, I'm just giving you the facts.'

  Lord Attaby smiled. It was extrememly unpleasant, in my experience, Prime Minister, facts are remarkably malleable things. They can be massaged to fit any number of scenarios depending upon a variety of preferred outcomes.'

  'Really?' she said, seething.

  He nodded. 'Really'

  'How very interesting. Because in my experience that's known as falsifying evidence. Manipulating the truth. To be blunt, Lord Attaby, it's known as lying. Also covering your arse!

  The nondescript man on Lord Attaby's right looked down, lips twitching. Monk's illustrious relative frowned disapprovingly. Lord Attaby scowled, his pouchy face burnished dull crimson. 'Young woman—'

  'No, not "young woman",' she said. 'You were right the first time. Do at least try to keep the protocol intact.' She leaned her fists on the oak conference table and thrust her face into his. 'Now let's get something straight, my lord. As far as I'm concerned there's plenty of blame to go around for this fiasco. And when it's over, by all means, let's sit down with tea and biscuits and parcel it out like lumps of sugar. But before that, if it's not too much to ask, could you and your hoity-toity Departmental chums here stop pointing fingers for five seconds and do something constructive?' She raked them with a furious gaze. 'Because in case you've forgotten, gentlemen, people are dying. And in light of that, how I got here and so on and so forth is just a steaming pile of bollocks!'

  'I'm so sorry,' said a hesitant, apologetic voice from the doorway. 'You mustn't be offended. My sister has a temper but her heart is in the right place. And as it happens, this time I agree with her. We don't have time for recriminations.'

  Melissande spun round. 'Rupert? Rupert, where the hell have you been?'

  As the discreet secretary closed the doors again Rupert walked towards her, one hand outstretched. 'Darling Melly,' he said. He still looked ridiculous in his ruined blue velvet knickerbockers and orange silk shirt but even so… something was different. Something had changed. Reaching her, he took her hand and kissed her cheek. 'I've been sorting a few things out. Lord Attaby?'

  Horrible Lord Attaby was on his feet. So were his bookends. 'Your Majesty,' he murmured. 'I take it you and the Prime Minister have reached an agreement?'

  'We have,' said Rupert. 'Everything's arranged.'

  Dumbfounded, Melissande stared at Monk then Reg then back at Rupert, I'm sorry,' she said, and pulled her hand free. 'What's arranged? Rupert, what are you—'

  He kissed her cheek again. 'I'll explain everything later. You have my word. But right now you need to come with me, all of you. We don't have much time if we're going to save Gerald.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Running unsteadily, almost staggering, with a dull-brown, skinny one-eyed dragon flapping in his wake, Gerald returned to the palace forecourt. Sultan Zazoor, his holy man Shugat and the Kallarapi army were still gathered there, safe within their shimmering domed shield. Not a single expression on a single face changed as he haphazardly approached.

  After reeling to a halt he bent over for a moment, hands braced on his knees, and sucked in deep gulps of air. It still stank of burned flesh and acid poison. His stomach protested and he spat out bile. Behind him his pathetic dragon landed gracelessly on the ruined grass, hissing as it caught the scent of its counterpart.

  When he could trust his guts he straightened, slowly, and stared through the shield at Zazoor and Shugat. 'Where's Lional? Where's his dragon? Did you see which way they went? Do you know where they are now? Can you at least help me that much?'

  Zazoor and Shugat looked at him, eyes hooded, expressions remote. Just as eerily silent, the mounted warriors sat on their camels as though posing for a portrait.

  You bastards. I think I hate you. 'What is wrong with you people?' he shouted. The skinny brown dragon flapped its wings and hissed softly. 'Look at me! Look at this dragon! Aren't you afraid yet? Because if you're not, you bloody well should be! Don't you get it? We're all that's standing between you and Lional! Can that magical barrier of yours reach over your entire nation? I don't think so. Nobody has that much power!'

  Shugat stirred. Blinked. 'You are wrong, wizard. Our gods have that much power. They have power enough to shield the world.' His voice reverberated strangely within the pearlescent shield.

  'Your gods…' Gerald felt himself breaking inside, as though all his fault lines were fracturing. 'Well bully for them, Shugat! And bugger you! If you're not going to help me then why don't you and your sultan and your ragtag bunch of camel jockeys sod off home! I don't think Melissande's in the market for a bunch of lawn ornaments at the moment!'

  Shugat sighed. 'Wizard, you are wasting time. Even now Lional and his dragon replenish their strength. Would you break your oath a second time? If not you must face them. You must face them or be lost forever.'

  I changed my mind. I don't think I hate you. I know I do. 'Fine,' he said bitterly. 'I'll face them. And we both know I'll probably fail. It's almost certain Lional will kill me. And after I'm dead he'll come for you. Maybe your shield will hold and maybe it won't. But if it doesn't . . . don't you dare blame me. Whatever happens after this, Shugat, the blood's on your hands, mate. It won't be on mine.'

  Shugat said nothing. Beside him, Zazoor said nothing.

  So. That's that. They're not going to help me. I'm really on my own.

  Hollow, feeling strangely disconnected from the world, Gerald turned his back on them. Gave a hard tug on the mental leash connecting himself and the skinny brown dragon and left the Kallarapi to their own devices to continue the hunt for Lional and his dragon.

  He didn't have to hunt far. The horrific sound of horses screaming led him to Lional's private stable yard where Lional was seated on an upturned barrel watching his dragon feed on equine flesh.

  The stables had been ripped apart, bricks and tiles and jagged splinters of timber scattered piecemeal, flame-scarred and acid-etched. The yard itself was a shambles, lumps of meat, shards of bone and ribbons of blood-soaked hair splattered over every surface. Gerald felt his stomach heave. From the available evidence the black and tan hounds had been killed too.

  More blood on my hands. More innocents slaughtered. I'll never be able to make this right...

  Lional's dragon darted and whirled amongst the few remaining terror-maddened horses, butchering indiscriminately, biting and tearing and swallowing as though it were starved. In his mind Gerald felt the little brown dragon howl a protest as it scented the kills through the link that bound them. It took all his strength to overpower its will and keep it hidden, safe from being revealed too soon.

  Lional's frenzied dragon turned on the last surviving horse and bared its blood-slicked teeth, acid pouring from its mouth and spines. The cobblestones smoked, the air filled with the stench of burning blood.

  Gerald leapt forward. 'Stop the damned thing, Lional, before it's too late! Can't you see?' That's Demon. He's your favourite horse, isn't he? Don't let it eat Demon.'

  If you let it eat Demon then you truly are gone.

  Lional's face was white as death. 'Demon?'

  As the stallion called out to its master in fearful entreaty the dragon killed it. Then, with a hissing cry of triumph, fell upon the steaming carcass and tore it open like it was made of paper.

  Light-headed with horror, Gerald watched Lional slide off his upturned barrel and dabble his fingers in the steaming blood pouring from his murdered horse. Watched him lift a cupped brimming handful to his lips and drink…

  Despite the torment he'd endured at Lional's han
d, the rage he felt at Lional's unspeakable wickedness… he was overwhelmed with sickened pity.

  'Oh, Lional. Lional. What have you become?'

  Hunger satisfied at last, the dragon settled amongst the remains of its butchered feast, wings furled against its bulging sides, eyes half lidded and watchful. With a sigh of utter repletion Lional dragged his bloody hands over his face, his hair. Sucked the red smears from his fingers. Then he turned and smiled. His eyes were crimson.

  'Why, Gerald… isn't it obvious? I've become myself?

  He faltered backwards a step. What? Lional had called himself…

  'Lional,' he said desperately, 'listen. Please. If you are still in there listen to me. You have to fight this. It won't be easy, you're nearly gone, but I can help you. Lional, you don't want to be this thing. You can't want it, you weren't born a monster. In your own twisted way you love New Ottosland. You did this for your kingdom. Your people. Well now they need you, Lional. Not the dragon. You. So fight this, you bastard. Do you hear me? Fight it!'

  Lional was staring at him, head tipped to one side. Beneath the blood his expression was gently puzzled. 'But Gerald… there is nothing to fight. I am the dragon… and the dragon is me. We are us. We are one. I am… I.'

  In the stinking silence Gerald heard his heart beating. It's true. They are one… which means I've failed. I've failed and doomed this kingdom. Good work, Dunnywood. How's that for a legacy?

  And then he shook his head. No. If Reg was here she'd kick his arse for thinking like that.

  She wouldn't quit now and neither will I. It's the least I owe her after letting her down.

  He took a tentative step towards Lional. 'Your Majesty, think for a minute. What about Melissande? What about Rupert? They're your family, they need you, too. The dragon might hurt them, you don't want that. You—'

  'Those names are shadows. I am my own family, Gerald,' said Lional, smiling. 'Shall we show you?'

  Before he could escape, Lional's hands captured his face. The grasping fingers were scorching hot, as hard as dragon's claws. Still smiling, Lional drew him close… closer… their lips met and he tumbled helplessly into the blast furnace of Lional's dragon mind.