by James Bennet
The shadows moving in the car park walls were here because they sensed powerful spells at work. Like hungry wolves circling a campfire, the Lurkers caught the scent of magic and scuttled mesmerised towards its source. The car park must be dripping with scrawled wards and clever decoys, all designed to stabilise reality, hold the barrier walls in place and keep the Lurkers at bay. And keep Ben trapped like a wasp in jam. Considering the manacles around his wrists, it seemed that this level of the car park was one big spell invoked for his benefit. All one orchestrated sorcerous cage.
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. He almost felt flattered. Lord knows he’d spent a good deal of time getting up other people’s noses, most of all House Fitzwarren’s. But this dank hole would probably be the last thing he ever saw. He’d never see Rose again. Never sip another glass of Jack. It shrivelled his sense of pride.
He pushed the thought away, focusing groggily on Fulk.
“All this bloody abracadabra. It sure as hell isn’t your doing.” Ben coughed and spat out blood. “So the CROWS helped you find me. Did they gut a bird? Stare into a bowl? They souped up your sword and probably said you could kill me with it.” It was a guess, but he thought a good one. “In return for what? There is always a price to pay for this shit…”
“So you said. And maybe I’ve already paid that price. Maybe it was worth it too. Maybe nobody needs you any more.”
“The Dark Queen.”
“Bingo. Move straight to GO. Collect two hundred pounds.” Fulk chuckled. “She’s dragon enough for what we have in mind.”
“What…what do you have in mind?”
Fulk grinned, his beard parting. Even with sweat in his eyes, Ben could see the gaps in his teeth, the missing ivory lying somewhere in an East Side gutter. The sight gave him some small satisfaction.
“What am I? A storybook villain? What you don’t know can’t hurt you.” Fulk moved closer, raising the claymore. Ben could smell his motorbike leathers, the black material stained by oil, and the sword shed heat on his skin, the old weapon steeped in witchcraft. “I, on the other hand, can.”
“So what is this, Fulk? Death by a thousand cuts?”
“Nope. Only a few more.” Fulk shrugged and his grin grew wider. “I’m gonna make myself one hell of a jacket.”
The sword angled downward, slicing into Ben’s waist. Notched steel tried to navigate his hipbone. Blood flowed, hot down his leg, dripping off his toes. His scream bounced back to him from the walls, the spidery shadows unmoved. With a butcher’s grace, Fulk carved muscle and flesh, and Ben forced himself to look down, blanching at his wounds.
The sword had left ruin in its wake. His skin hung loose from shoulder to hip, red raw and slick with blood. His ribcage gleamed through the mess, pale edges of bone. As he watched, the mauled tissue bubbled and stretched, sinew stitching to sinew, throwing up a thin epidermis. His flesh grew hard, deepening in shade, pink to crimson. The brief crust thickened to scales, a shield clothing his flank.
Fulk grunted, his sword lodged in Ben’s side. With both hands on the hilt, he levered the blade and again there came that soft ripping sound as he peeled a scale from Ben’s body. Scrape. Once it was loose, he flung the saucer-sized item on to a little pile nearby. Clink.
Blood dripped. Splash.
Ben howled. His chains joined him in chorus. Then the magic kicked in, the glyphs on his manacles twinkling. Whatever the nature of the symbols, they clearly trumped his natural immunity, his inbuilt resistance to magic. Or did they merely work on the air around him, gripping and compacting it, containing the space required to transform? Either way, the spell was potent, more potent than any he had previously encountered, and it surprised him that the CROWS were capable of this, even as he wondered where they had found the strength. He felt the spell working on him, a subtle, nauseating pressure. His newly formed scales wavered and faded, withdrawing into visceral shreds, human skin covering his side, the circuit of pain coming full circle.
Fulk hefted the sword again, ready to repeat the process. The car park was a blur. Ben’s head lolled on his chest.
“Oh no you don’t.” Fulk clutched Ben’s jaw, thrusting his head back. “I don’t want you to miss a thing.” He sheathed his sword over his shoulder, a fluid, practised motion. Fumbling in his jacket, he tugged out a small white object and popped the cap under Ben’s nose. Ben jerked, his eyelids fluttering open. Ammonia stung his nostrils. Tears mingled with sweat on his cheeks.
Fulk slapped him twice, hard, and blood dribbled over Ben’s chin. “There. That’s better. Now, where were we?”
The car park swam back into focus, sharper than before. The shadows on the walls retreated, the real world growing solid and painful. A few yards behind Fulk, Ben made out a parked motorcycle, a dark beast with golden rims. A revamped model. A Triumph. The Black Knight liked his fancy rides.
“You were…talking shit, as usual.”
Fulk snorted, shrugging off the insult.
“Look at you. All tucked in and ready for bed. I reckon it’s time to read you a story.” He strode over to the bike and pulled out an object strapped to the luggage carrier. Then he turned, all shaggy-haired smugness, and held up the book in his hands. It was a large, square leather-bound volume, frayed yellow pages sticking out between the covers. “Are you sitting comfortably? It’s one of your favourites.”
Fulk walked back over to where Ben hung. Cruelty and madness danced in his eyes. Like a parent with a curious child, he stood beside Ben to let him see the pictures. The book opened with a creak of centuries-old hate.
Ben groaned. “Don’t…”
“Whisht! lads.” Fulk chuckled, relishing the quote. “Haad yor gobs, an’ aa’ll tell ye ’boot the a’fall worm…”
The True & Tragic Tale of the Mordiford Dragon
Once upon a time, when King John sat upon the throne in England and the Great Forest swathed the land, a young girl by the name of Maud stumbled across an egg in the woods. This was no ordinary egg, being somewhat large and red as an apple, and delighted with her curious find, Maud carried it back to the village of Mordiford, which rested beside an ancient ford over the River Lugg.
Afraid that her father would take the egg from her, Maud kept it hidden under her bed in the old cottage. Then, one morning, she found pieces of broken shell scattered on the floorboards. To her surprise, she saw a tiny red thing in a corner of her room, its leathery wings flapping awkwardly, its little forked tongue flicking in and out. Maud had always dreamed of a pet, so she picked the thing up and gently stroked its snout and tail, the scaly beast purring in her arms.
As she would a stray cat, Maud fed the beast on saucers of milk. The messy way in which it drank made up her mind that it was a boy. His fangs suggested he might prefer meat, but the girl tried not to think about that.
The little beast, which the girl called Red, grew at an alarming rate. Soon enough her bedroom was too small for him and she had no choice but to hide him in a derelict barn up on Old Farmer Bryn’s land. Every day she brought him pails of milk filched from the farmer’s dairy and remarked upon his tremendous size. Staring up at Red’s teeth, Maud could no longer see him as a cat. She began to suspect he was something much worse, something her father had warned her about, but she could not bring herself to say the word.
Then, one day at dawn, Farmer Bryn stumbled across the beast in the barn. The farmer had no trouble with the word in question and cried it loudly down the road and into Mordiford, rousing the sleeping villagers.
“Dragon!” he cried to Fishwife and Miller.
“Dragon!” he cried to Blacksmith and Priest.
“Dragon!” cried Fishwife to Miller, and “Dragon!” cried Blacksmith to Priest.
As one, the villagers grabbed their pitchforks and torches and made their way up the hill to the farm.
Meanwhile, a panicked Maud raced ahead of the mob and urged Red to flee into the woods, which he did, hiding himself in a deep, dark cave. The mob searched and searched, but th
eir efforts were in vain. Come dusk, they returned to the village, grumbling about snakes and worms and horrible deaths. Many of them had heard what had happened up in Lambton, and they did not fancy the same trouble here.
In the following months, some folks claimed that the dragon’s kin came to visit him in the woods and taught him their long and loathsome legends, along with the magical tricks that play a part in the rest of our tale. The priests thereabouts said that the dragon was the Devil himself, come to tempt a damsel into damnation, but all tales change in the telling and you can’t always trust what priests say.
A few months turned into years. Hard years, all told, the long winters the least of it. Crops failed and poultry went missing. Farmers found sheep strewn up in the trees. Then cows in the surrounding fields began to vanish overnight, only one or two at first, then three, then four, then five. When Maud carried milk to the cave in the woods, she found the trough outside thick and sour, with fresh bones littering the ground. It seemed that Red’s appetites were changing. Huddled in their cold hall, the villagers grumbled and griped. They said it was only a matter of time before the dragon took a fancy to human flesh.
When Maud tried to convince them otherwise, the fishwives muttered, “Witchcraft.”
Fearful of a widespread panic, the Village Elder travelled to London to beseech King John. The King, already vexed by the war with France and a certain outlaw in the north, was most upset to hear the news from the Marches. In typical fashion (for he was not a nice king), he ordered his guards to flog the Elder and send him on his way. Dragons, though rare, were a constant thorn in the kingdom’s side, and John lay awake at night wondering how best to deal with them. Nevertheless, when his chancellor advised him that an entire eaten village would mean less tax, John sent an urgent message to Shropshire summoning his greatest slayer to court.
From Whittington Castle, the glorious and handsome Fulk Fitzwarren saddled his horse and rode out. Fresh from slaying a wyrm in Carthage and another menace in Taunton, the noble Fulk knelt before the King and heard his peevish command.
“Rid Mordiford of the dragon. Slash it, gash it, dash it on the rocks.” And the King – who was ever a man of threats rather than rewards – said, “Do this by Whitsun morn or surrender your keep and lands to the Crown.”
His horse’s hooves throwing up dust, Fulk Fitzwarren thundered back to the Marches.
Once there, he spoke with the Village Elder in the church. Fulk noticed a damsel praying at the altar, and between the Elder’s sobs and curses, he learnt that the damsel’s name was Maud. That night, he found Maud working behind the bar in the Moon on Two Rivers, and he sought to woo her with tales of his derring-do. Maud, who spent much of her time walking in the woods, turned her pretty face away and described a certain cold day in Hell. Much vexed, for no girl in the land dared refuse a knight, Fulk went to see her father. In secret, Maud’s father promised his daughter’s hand in marriage should the knight vanquish the dragon.
With a threat and a promise heavy on his heart, Fulk set out to do just that.
For the next three moons, he rode in and out of the woods, a proud figure in black armour (soon to become one with thorns in his hair and tears in his cloak). He leapt hedgerows and forest pools. He climbed hills and mighty oaks. He crept along cliffs and down gullies. He questioned hags in moonlit glades. He strung deer on low branches. He looked under rocks and in gnarled hollows. He built bonfires and clanged shields. He hired hounds and set them sniffing through the briar. Nothing led him to the secret cave and he never laid eyes on the dragon.
And all the while, cows and sheep still went missing from the nearby farms.
Before long, Mordiford was muttering again. Who, they said, was this fool that the King had sent them? The only things flying from the woods were birds! Fulk could hear them as he drank his ale in the Moon at night, muddy and moody in a corner of the inn. His scowl was enough to daunt company and his bold talk stuck like bones in his throat. His heart became as bitter as vetch, and when he rode up into the woods at dawn, he ground his teeth and tugged his beard, his weary horse stumbling on stones. A dragon was an unnatural beast, the earthly spawn of Satan. It was only fair that God should guide a knight’s hand to its destruction, just as He had done before.
Fulk laid many traps in the woods. He spent all day digging pits and filling them with stakes. He hoisted nets into the trees and kicked leaves over iron snares. He poured tar into the ruts of forest roads, keeping tinder and flint hidden under bushes nearby. He rolled rocks to the tops of ridges and lodged them there with logs. He hid himself in barrels at night, their sides bristling with blades and spikes, while watching a well in a woodland clearing where some said the dragon came to drink. Finally, after many restless, impatient nights, he bought a potion from the local hag and poured it into the well, thereby poisoning the water. But nothing led him to the secret cave and he never laid eyes on the dragon.
And all the while, cows and sheep still went missing from the nearby farms.
As the days swept towards Whitsun, the villagers stopped muttering and started to grumble outright. The woods, they said, now presented more danger than the dragon! Those who dared the thickets had stumbled on bears impaled in pits and pheasants caught in nets in the trees. They found foxes and badgers crushed under rocks, burnt boar left lying in the road and wolves trapped in iron snares. And one afternoon, Ned the Tanner found a dead hag curled up like a spider by an old clearing well. If nothing changed, the villagers said, Sir Fulk would have slain the woods by Whitsun.
Might as well burn them to the ground, they said.
Poor, handsome, brave Fulk! In the blink of an eye, it was Whitsun Eve and all the knight had to show for his trouble was misery and scorn. Seeing his chance for glory slipping between his fingers, his reputation forever tarnished, he hurried on foot from the inn at dusk, snarling a desperate vow. If his castle was to fall into King John’s hands, then he would heed the villagers’ advice and leave no tree between himself and the dragon!
He was building a great bonfire in the woods when, by chance, he overheard muffled voices. It was a strange hour for travel even for gypsies, and considering the deadly repute of those parts, he thought it stranger still. Fearing robbers or worse, Fulk climbed into a tree and spied two figures enter the clearing. Imagine his surprise when he recognised Maud! The damsel appeared in some distress, scowling and pointing at the bonfire. It was clear that her companion vexed her, but Fulk, straining to make out their words, did not recognise the churl, a tall youth, strong of jaw, with a shock of red hair. The churl was trying to calm Maud, and when he put his arms around her, Fulk realised that the two of them were lovers. He gripped the branches around him until his palms bled. Maud’s father had promised him his daughter’s hand in marriage, and he would not see another steal his prize. In greenest envy, he watched the girl push the stranger away and flee along the woodland path, heading back to the village.
The red-haired youth did not give chase. Instead, he cursed under his breath.
“Damsels!” Then, bizarrely, he muttered, “Why are my tastes any business of hers?”
The churl stormed off into the trees, and Sir Fulk, vengeful and grim, dropped down from his perch and slipped quickly after him. For an hour and more he stalked the youth, mindful to keep to the shadows and tread softly through the brush. Again he was surprised. The path his quarry took led him to Farmer Bryn’s land and the fields behind the derelict barn.
Fulk peered through the hedgerow and gasped, for there he laid eyes on a terrible sight – a man-beast sitting in the field, gnawing on a freshly killed cow! Scaly it was, red and fanged, its mouth dripping with blood. Its eyes resembled platters of gold, shining cat-like under the stars. Here, Fulk knew, he had found his dragon, a creature that could ape the form of a man and walk among other folk unseen. The churl was a monster. A beast of prey. A devil come to tempt damsels.
Brave and true, the slayer wasted not another second. He leapt from the hedgerow, s
word unsheathed, and descended with a cry on his feasting foe. The man-beast roared and dropped the cow, but shrank away from a duel. On all fours, it galloped back into the woods, casting hot glances behind it.
Fulk cursed his lack of a horse. Armour clanking, he raced in pursuit.
He did not have to run far. In a gloomy copse, he found the churl strung between the trees, caught up in one of the great rope nets. The youth’s struggles failed to free him, and Fulk watched his scaly hide fade, slowly returning to human guise. When the churl was simply a churl again, Fulk saw his knightly glory restored.
“Beelzebub!” he cried, and struck the churl on the head with the hilt of his sword. “Lucifer! Archfiend! Dragon!”
Then he dragged his insensible catch back with him to Mordiford.
At dawn on Whitsun Eve, Fulk Fitzwarren rang the church bells.
The sleepy villagers gathered in the square. Maud was in the crowd but the girl said nothing, perhaps knowing more about the sight before them than her yawning neighbours.
“Here!” cried Fulk. “Here is the one who ate your livestock! Here is the one who lurks in your woods! Here, behold your dragon!”