by Anne Forbes
Knowing Lord Jezail as he did, the count almost shrugged. It was, after all, a fairly typical reaction and, he supposed, to be expected; for by the time he’d returned to Ashgar, his master had heard that the fabled Book of Spells had been found and had been so full of excitement that he couldn’t think of anything else! Some said it was the witches who had started the rumour but the fact remained that word had quickly spread throughout the world of magic that the MacArthurs, the faery folk who lived in the depths of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, had somehow managed to lay their hands on it.
The news was enough to send Jezail into raptures. The Book of Spells had been found; and, quite naturally, he wanted it! Indeed, the thought had occupied his mind ever since!
Of course, Vassili thought, looking back on the matter, he should never have said anything about Clara; but the minute his master had mentioned the Book of Spells, he knew that it had been Clara who had found it. The spell she’d used to summon daemons (in the middle of the school concert, for goodness sake) had been uttered in the words of ancient magic. And she had obviously known the spell by heart, for she’d said it confidently, without hesitation. He wished now that he’d kept his mouth shut; for it was that particular piece of information that had given Lord Jezail his big idea. He knew perfectly well that there was little chance of his being able to steal the Book of Spells from the MacArthurs — there was, after all, their dragon to contend with — but if this child had memorized them…
“I know what you’re thinking,” Lord Jezail growled suddenly from the depths of his chair, “but kidnapping this girl is the only way I can get my hands on the spells. She knows them all off by heart. You told me so, yourself.”
The count looked at him warily. Did his feelings show as much as that? If Lord Jezail could read his thoughts with such accuracy, he’d certainly have to be a lot more careful. It wouldn’t do for him to discover the real reason for his presence in the citadel.
Lord Jezail smiled sourly at the count’s expression of dismay. “After all,” he pointed out, “it won’t take her all that long to write the spells down, will it? She wouldn’t be my prisoner for long and …”
A gentle tap on the door announced the arrival of a servant who entered with a tray piled high with cakes and sandwiches. Vassili watched as he set the table and then made haste to serve his master.
Forgetting the Book of Spells, Lord Jezail drew his chair closer to the table. “It’s ridiculous, really, when you think of it,” he groused, his eyes falling on the little box of dragon pills. “Here am I, one of the greatest Dragon Seekers of all time, and look at me! Reduced to this! Waiting — waiting, like a servant, for the Khan to arrive! If he doesn’t come, I’ve a good mind to go out and kill a dragon myself!”
“Well, it would be exciting to say the least, Milord, but I can’t say I recommend it,” the count’s eyes twinkled as he lifted a plate of sandwiches from the table. “You were a lot younger in those days, for a start,” he pointed out, “and a lot fitter. But your deeds, you know, aren’t forgotten. Everyone remembers the great beasts that you slew.”
“Hmmph!” Lord Jezail sounded disgruntled but Vassili’s rare words of praise pleased him, nevertheless. He straightened in his chair, smiling slightly as he reached for a sandwich. “Those were the days, Vassili!” he said dreamily. “Stalking dragons, trailing them through the forests and over the mountains, losing them sometimes when they flew off to that dratted valley …”
The count sighed. He knew what was coming next. He’d heard it all so many times before. Yet, if all the old tales his father had told him were true, then Lord Jezail had, indeed, been a great Dragon Seeker in days of old. So much so that the remaining dragons in the area had eventually taken refuge in a deep, desolate valley, which they had guarded fiercely ever since.
“It’s monstrous!” his master muttered. “That valley’s full of dragons and yet I have to rely on the Khan for my pills!” He leant forward to choose another sandwich. “And pay a fortune for them!” he added, sourly.
Vassili shrugged. “Well, there’s not a lot we can do about it, Milord,” he said, a trifle ruefully as he poured his master’s tea,” unless, of course,” he added teasingly,” you’re really serious about visiting the Valley of the Dragons!”
Jezail looked suddenly grim. “If I weren’t so weak, I’d go tomorrow!” he snapped.
Vassili looked at him sharply, startled at the sudden strength of his tone.
“When I said that the Khan charged a fortune for his dragon pills, I meant it,” his master said bitterly. “Every time he comes, he charges me double. Says they’ve become scarce! And I do need the pills, Vassili! My will might be strong but my body, these days, is old and weak. The dragon pills give me strength! And,” his voice became fretful, “what will happen when his supplies run out? Tell me that, Vassili? If you rule out the Valley of the Dragons, then tell me: where is he going to find more dragons in this day and age?”
The count looked at his master thoughtfully; for Lord Jezail certainly had a point. “I don’t know,” he was forced to admit. “Times have changed, haven’t they? I mean …”
“They used to be ten a penny in the old days,” Lord Jezail said tiredly. “Well, maybe not quite,” he was forced to admit, “but there were a lot of them around.”
Vassili nodded, remembering stories of one particularly ferocious dragon that had roamed the countryside round his father’s castle at Trollsberg. “It couldn’t have been much fun having them prowling round the place,” he said, “but as for killing one … well,” he looked at his master in grudging admiration, “I wouldn’t like to face up to a dragon myself!”
“Having a good sword helped,” the magician answered. “It had to be sharp, of course!”
“May I ask how many dragons you killed?” Vassili asked, genuinely interested.
“Twenty-three,” Lord Jezail said proudly, his good humour restored. “You wouldn’t think so, looking at me now, but I was reckoned one of the best Dragon Seekers of my day! Of course, twenty-three wasn’t the record. That was held by the English knight, Sir Pendar.”
“You can hardly compare yourself to him, though,” Vassili objected, holding out a plate. “He had a magic sword, after all! You didn’t! His job was easy by comparison!”
“That’s true,” Lord Jezail mused, helping himself to a piece of cake. “He killed forty-nine dragons if the old stories are true.”
“And died trying to kill Arthur!”
“Yes, Arthur was to have been his fiftieth kill,” Jezail agreed. “You know the story, then?”
The count nodded. “Well, sort of. I know that the Lords of the North rescued Arthur and that he’s lived with the MacArthurs in Arthur’s Seat ever since …”
“Mmmm,” Lord Jezail bit into the slice of cake. “Sir Pendar’s buried in Edinburgh, too — in the castle rock. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Vassili looked surprised. “In the rock, itself?” he frowned. “How on earth did the townspeople manage that?”
“They didn’t,” Lord Jezail answered. “The Lords of the North hexed his tomb out of the rock and guided the people to it. Once he’d been laid to rest with his sword, horn and flag by his side, they closed the tomb by magic. At least, so the story goes.”
“So he’s still there,” Vassili mused, “after all these years? With his sword and all?”
“As far as I know,” Lord Jezail nodded, putting the last piece of cake in his mouth and waving his hand to indicate that he’d finished eating.
Vassili rose to his feet to summon the servant and, in so doing, missed the strange expression that crossed his master’s face.
Dragonslayer, Lord Jezail thought, a sudden wave of excitement shooting through him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Dragonslayer; the magic sword that could pierce the scales of dragons! As Vassili had just so conveniently pointed out, it was still there … in Edinburgh!
Gripping his hands together to calm his racing mind, he was
careful to keep a straight face. Vassili must never suspect. He knew the count. If he got so much as a tiny hint of the scheme that had suddenly flashed through his mind, he’d start putting all sorts of obstacles and objections in the way.
But … to own Dragonslayer! To become a Dragon Seeker once more! The thought was really quite breathtaking and, he realized excitedly, certainly more than possible; for he wouldn’t need his old strength to wield such a wonderful sword. Dragonslayer would slice into a dragon as easily as a knife slides through butter. And, as they were going to Scotland anyway, they could certainly include Edinburgh in their travels. If he failed — well, he wouldn’t be any worse off, but if he were to succeed …
Thoughts of Dragonslayer filled his mind for the rest of the day. Opening the tomb, he thought, might present problems, especially if it had been closed by magic … but, on the other hand, maybe not.
So it was that when night fell and lamps were lit in the town, he stood once again at the high window of the citadel. This time, however, his eyes were blind to the twinkling lights of Stara Zargana or the high peaks of the mountains standing stiffly against the darkening sky; for his mind was full of swords, dragons, magic … and the earthquake that might make all of his dreams come true.
2. Earthquake
“Hey, Clara,” Neil shouted excitedly, “tell Mum and Dad to come and look at the telly! There’s been an earthquake in Edinburgh and they’re showing it now!”
Clara called her parents and rushed to the TV set in the living room where the announcer talked them through the earthquake that had devastated Edinburgh and, more to the point, rocked the great castle that loomed, in all its majesty, over the city centre.
“My goodness,” Mrs MacLean said worriedly as they watched,” just look at the expressions on people’s faces!”
In the mobile phone footage, everyone on Princes Street was looking up in alarm at the sudden noise; a fearful, growling roar that sounded as though several jumbo jets were about to land on top of them! Some stared anxiously over the broad stretch of Princes Street Gardens towards the castle, thinking perhaps, that its guns had fired an unexpected salvo, but it was only when the ground started to shake and the pavement swayed beneath their feet that the truth dawned. It was an earthquake! Startled faces paled with fear as realization dawned that the dreadful roar was the voice of the earth itself.
They watched in awe as the TV screen showed cars braking frantically, shrieking to a halt as the road in front of them took on a life of its own. Horns blared as buses collided, their terrified passengers struggling to get out. Shoppers and assistants alike fled from stores and fought their way through the tumble of people struggling to keep their balance on the pavement before they, too, were caught up in the heaving, rippling roller coaster that was Princes Street.
Stumbling across the road to the relative safety of Princes Street Gardens, they clung to the railings to keep their balance and watched, powerless, as the heaving earth continued to shake even the largest buildings.
“Look at that!” Clara gasped, pointing to the screen as several pillars fronting the art gallery bulged dangerously.
The cameras focused again on the garden side of Princes Street where a woman was screeching like a banshee! “The castle!” she was screaming, her face contorted with disbelief. “Look at the castle! It’s falling down!”
Fortunately, this proved to be a bit of an exaggeration for it wasn’t actually the castle that was falling but the part of the rock that lay below the esplanade. Clara gasped. It was like watching a film in slow motion for, in front of their disbelieving eyes, a huge part of the rocky slope bulged slowly outwards and then sheered away in an explosion of sound, sending a thundering avalanche tumbling down into the gardens and onto the railway line below.
“Thank goodness there were no trains running,” John MacLean said, as the video footage finished and the camera homed in on the castle itself, revealing the deep scar that had been carved out of its rock before panning down to the tumble of stone and earth that covered the railway line. “If that load of rock had hit the carriages, they would have been flattened!”
The announcer was saying much the same thing as the camera showed Princes Street where yellow-jacketed workers had already started clean-up operations. “Princes Street,” he said, “seems to have been badly hit, as you can see. A complete disaster zone! We are hearing, however, that the rest of the city seems to have escaped major damage. In fact, the earthquake only seems to have affected Central Edinburgh.” He glanced casually at his monitor. “We’re expecting a report on its magnitude any minute now. I’ll give it to you as soon as it comes in.”
“I wonder if it shook Arthur’s Seat?” Mrs MacLean frowned, thinking of the great hill, shaped like a sleeping dragon, that dominated the Edinburgh skyline. “I hope the MacArthurs are alright!”
“I’d forgotten about them!” Neil gasped, for Arthur’s Seat was home to their friends; small faery folk called the MacArthurs.
Before they’d moved from Edinburgh to the Borders, Neil’s father had been the Park Ranger on Arthur’s Seat and both he and his sister, Clara, had not only played with the MacArthurs as small children, but had also met the enormous dragon that lived with them in the hill. Despite the fact that they now lived miles away, they’d nevertheless continued to be involved in many of their adventures. Sitting up anxiously, Neil looked at the TV, hoping it would show more of the city, but the camera had changed direction and was now moving over the deep cracks, piles of rubble and twisted tramlines that littered Princes Street.
“Maybe we could go up to Edinburgh at the weekend?” Clara suggested. “I’m a bit worried about the MacArthurs. Could we, Mum? I mean, once we’re there we can call our magic carpets and go into the hill.”
Neil nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, let’s do that,” he said. “It’s ages since we saw the MacArthurs!”
“And Arthur!” Clara smiled, thinking of the great red dragon that lived in the hill.
Mrs MacLean looked at her husband who nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t see why not,” he said unconcernedly. “You can tell them we were asking for them … and that we hope the earthquake didn’t do any damage.”
“If it did,” Clara laughed, “they’d just use magic to fix it.”
Clara didn’t know it, but at that particular moment, Lord Jezail was thinking much the same thing. Should he use his magic to mend Sir Pendar’s tomb?
He frowned in annoyance as sunlight, streaming in through a jagged gap in the outer wall, revealed a ceiling that tilted alarmingly and stone walls full of deep cracks. How could he have made such an error of judgement? The hex he’d cast had been too strong by far. Indeed, he’d been lucky that the tomb hadn’t slipped down the side of the castle rock with the rock-slide!
Taking a deep breath to steady his quivering nerves, he stepped back and took another searching look round the interior of the small stone chamber, his sharp eyes missing nothing as they darted here and there. A black flag with a golden sword in its centre listed crazily against one wall and, underneath its dusty folds, stood a huge coffin. Cut out of solid rock, it dominated the room. The heavy stone slab that had obviously been its lid, lay shattered on the floor, witness to the strength of the mighty earthquake he’d hexed up.
Reverently, he approached the coffin and peered inside. Would it be there, he asked himself anxiously? Would the sword be there?
At first, he was too taken aback to notice it, for although Sir Pendar lay in great splendour, his shining armour encased the white bones of his skeleton. His skull grinned up at him from the depths of his helmet; his bones showed clearly through the joints in his armour and his horn lay by his side. It was then that a burst of joy filled the magician’s heart — for the skeleton’s hand clutched a sword across its chest in a bony grasp. Dragonslayer! There was no doubt about it! He feasted his eyes on its broad, embossed blade and fingered the delicate curve of the carved dragon that decorated its hilt. Dragonslayer! It was his for
the taking!
His hand shook as he reached into the coffin to take the sword but Sir Pendar’s grasp was unyielding. He pulled at the sword but it didn’t move. Not an inch.
The magician’s face turned ugly. He hadn’t come all this way to find the sword and leave without it!
Seeing his face, the sword trembled within itself. The earthquake, totally unexpected, had frightened the wits out of it but when the lid of the coffin had slid off and crashed to the floor, a great well of happiness had surged through it. There was light: it could see!
Dragonslayer’s happiness, however, dimmed when the magician bent over the coffin, his face evil and triumphant. It had already sensed the presence of magic and the feeling was confirmed the minute Lord Jezail put his hand on its hilt.
The sword thought rapidly as a myriad of possibilities flashed through its mind. It would, quite naturally, have much preferred to have been found by a human; preferably some simple soul like Sir Pendar who had done what he was told, when he was told. Magicians, however, were a very different kettle of fish and the sword was wary. It was as Lord Jezail pulled again at the hilt that the sword gauged the depths of the magician’s power and was overtaken by doubt; for this was a powerful magician, indeed.
The sword sighed. It was the same story all over again! All its life, it had been hampered by the fact that it couldn’t move around on its own. It needed to belong to someone who would care for it, carry it around and obey its wishes. But a magician? It hesitated for a few seconds more, weighing up the possibilities — and then relaxed its grip, deciding that belonging to a magician might, after all, have its advantages.
The magician pulled again, this time with all his strength — and promptly fell over backwards as the sword slid easily from Sir Pendar’s grasp. Staggering to his feet, he looked at it greedily. He felt its power and, holding it by its hilt, waved it triumphantly in the air so that the sunlight sparked off its shining blade.