Dragonfire

by Anne Forbes

  With a sweeping gesture of his arm, their escort bowed low.

  “MacArthur,” he announced. “I found these people near the dragon’s tunnel. I got them out just in time!”

  The MacArthur looked grimly at the little group and then smiled. “I think I ken you. It’s Sir James, isn’t it? Sir James Erskine?” he queried.

  Sir James’s ability to handle delicate social situations seemed to have deserted him as he bowed awkwardly and agreed that he was.

  “Aye,” the MacArthur announced. “Aye! You have the look of your father about you. And your friends?”

  “Ranger MacLean from the Park and his children,” Sir James said, making the introductions, “and my foreman at the distillery, Jamie Todd. You will, perhaps, remember his father …?”

  “Aye, of course,” the MacArthur smiled. “We are all deeply indebted to him. Now, why don’t you come and sit by me and tell me what brings you here.”

  Chairs were hastily placed around the MacArthur’s throne and a servant brought a heavy silver tray bearing a jug of clear water and some tall glasses.

  Sir James regarded his glass thoughtfully. “I think, MacArthur,” he said, “that you probably know why we are here. Shall we say our National Drink? And,” and here he held up his glass, “I don’t mean water.”

  The MacArthur drew himself up haughtily. “I hope, Sir James, that you are not accusing us of drinking the … er … produce of your distillery. For it’s no’ the case … no’ the case at all. We drink nothing but pure spring water!”

  Sir James nodded. “I’m not accusing you of drinking my whisky, but if you aren’t drinking it, then who is? Or have twenty thousand gallons of it just vanished into thin air?”

  The MacArthur sat up abruptly. “Twenty thousand gallons! Is it as much as that?”

  A wave of excited whispering arose from the ranks of the MacArthurs at this disquieting piece of information. When it died down, the MacArthur stroked his chin thoughtfully and gazed speculatively at Sir James.

  “Then your father, Sir James, never told you why we rigged up yon wee pipeline?”

  “No, he did not. I … actually, I always assumed that you drank the whisky yourselves, but as I can see for myself that you don’t, I’m prepared to accept that there might be another explanation.”

  “It so happens …” The MacArthur tailed off as the sound of a tremendous roar echoed round the cavern, “… that there is a very good explanation. In fact, you have just heard it!”

  The Ranger broke in, “Do you mean to say that it’s the dragon that’s … that’s …?”

  The MacArthur nodded sourly. “Aye!” he gestured angrily. “Uncontrollable! Fire and smoke all over the place, day in, day out until we’re all sick of it.” He stood up and waved his stick. “And do you know whose fault it is?” He paused dramatically and pointed. “His fault! He was the one that found a bottle of whisky on the hill and gave it to Arthur! Come forward Archie and let me introduce you!”

  A shamefaced MacArthur moved forward and bowed low.

  The MacArthur was fast working himself into a passion. “This miserable specimen is Mad Archie! And mad he is for only a lunatic, a fool, a jackass, a nincompoop, a complete and utter idiot would ever give a dragon whisky!

  “I didn’t know it was whisky, MacArthur!” whined the miserable specimen. “I thought it was some kind of tonic. And Arthur was that depressed, I just thought it might cheer him up a bit.”

  “Arthur?” questioned Sir James, looking vaguely round.

  “Arthur,” retorted the MacArthur, “is our dragon. And a decent, respectable dragon he was too until that idiot gave him whisky!”

  “I’m sorry, Sir James,” Archie said. “The thing is that Arthur is no fool. He saw me turning on the tap every night when I went to top him up and …”

  “Top him up? You mean … you gave him a nightcap or something?”

  The MacArthur laughed scornfully. “A nightcap! Dinna be daft! Dragons don’t drink whisky. Any fool knows that!”

  Sir James sat up with a pained expression on his face. “Then what does he do with it?”

  The MacArthur shook his head in disbelief. “Man, will ye no’ just think about it!”

  Sir James looked baffled. “I’m sorry to appear so … so dense,” he remarked somewhat indignantly, “but, wuite frankly, I’ve rarely thought of dragons since I was about ten years old.”

  “Humph!” The MacArthur wasn’t impressed. “Well, that would account for your not knowing!”

  “Not knowing what?” interjected the Ranger quickly, conscious that Sir James was fast losing his temper.

  The MacArthur looked cross. “Well, how else do you think dragons breathe fire and smoke … a wee dram of whisky and … wrooooosh!”

  There was a stunned silence as Sir James, the Ranger, Jamie Todd and the children assimilated this astounding piece of information.

  “You see,” explained the MacArthur in a reasonable voice, “Arthur’s still a young dragon and it’ll be a while yet before he can breathe fire on his own. He’s always been a bit lonely, cooped up in the hill with only us for company, and it was when we found out how much he enjoyed blowing fire and smoke from the bottle that Archie gave him that we started taking small amounts from your father’s distillery, Sir James. Until, that is, Archie got caught and brought your father and Mr Todd into the hill. It was then that I had my great idea and we managed to persuade your father to set up the wee pipeline. To keep Arthur happy.”

  Sir James shook his head in disbelief. “The last thing my father would do is set up a pipeline of free whisky just to indulge a dragon in its favourite hobby.”

  The MacArthur shifted uncomfortably at the truth of this remark. “Well,” he admitted, “you see, I saw the kind of man your father was, Sir James. A wee bit tight-fisted, like? So I told Arthur that if he acted his part well, the chances were that he would be able to ‘top up’ every night and blow fire and smoke to his heart’s content for the rest of the day.”

  “And …?” said Sir James faintly.

  The MacArthur again looked uncomfortable. “We … er … spun your father and Mr Todd a tale about Arthur having woken up after five hundred years, and said we needed the whisky to keep him sedated, otherwise he would break out of the hill and terrorize the city.”

  “And my father believed that?” Sir James’s voice was shrill with incredulity.

  The MacArthur grinned reminiscently. “Oh aye! Arthur gave a fine performance … a fine performance indeed. It frightened the wits out of me, I can tell you, and I’ve known Arthur for hundreds of years. He was worn out for days afterwards!”

  Sir James burst out laughing. “Well, well, MacArthur,” he chuckled. “I think you must be the only person in Edinburgh who ever got the better of my father in a matter of business.”

  “But why,” persisted Jamie Todd, “did you decide to give Arthur thousands of gallons?”

  “We didn’t give it to him. Arthur watched Archie turn on the tap every night and decided to try it himself. He’s got an absolute lake of the stuff down there.”

  “Aye,” said Archie proudly, “he learned to turn the tap on himself.”

  “Then,” said the MacArthur, “then he wouldn’t let us near it to turn it off again. By then he was having too much fun seeing how far he could throw the flames and … well, to cut a long story short, he took to fire-raising in earnest. Look at us now! Living with the bits and pieces we could salvage in this cold, dark hall. He’s burnt us out of house and hill, has our Arthur!”

  Sir James sighed and shook his head. “Well, if the tap is still turned on at the foot of his lake then I’m ruined. How the devil am I going to explain away twenty thousand gallons of whisky? What on earth am I going to do?”

  “Disconnect the pipeline for a start,” advised Jamie Todd. “Then at least it won’t become thirty thousand gallons!”

  “That’s no good,” opined the Ranger. “That would still leave twenty thousand gallons for the drag
on to use up at his leisure. I’m thinking that it would be better for you to rig up some sort of pump at your end of the pipeline, Sir James, and pump back as much whisky as you can. You ought to be able to reclaim a tidy amount.”

  Sir James leapt to his feet and wrung the Ranger’s hand. “Magnificent!” he cried. “Absolutely magnificent! I’ll have my revenge on that Dougal MacLeod yet.”

  “Dougal MacLeod?” queried the MacArthur.

  “The Excise man who thinks he’s got me for stealing twenty thousand gallons of my own whisky! Now, don’t worry, my dear sir,” he said, “everything will sort itself out from now on. We’ll rig a pump up right away to get our whisky back. No whisky for the dragon means no more fire and smoke to plague the life out of you. From now on, you’ll have no more trouble from your dragon, I assure you!”

  8. Rothlan’s Story

  A murmur of approval and relief greeted Sir James’s words and the MacArthur beamed happily at his assurances. However, as an air of confident optimism permeated the hall, the Ranger wondered rather hesitantly if he should bring up the appearance of the strange, black bird that had attacked Clara and Neil.

  “There is one thing that hasn’t been explained, MacArthur, and it may well have nothing to do with you,” began the Ranger slowly, “but two nights ago, a great black bird attacked Neil and Clara while they were on the hill.

  “It was a huge bird,” Clara interrupted, pushing her brown hair behind her ears and fixing the MacArthur with her clear blue eyes, “like an eagle, but its feathers were …” her nose wrinkled in disgust, “… they were horrible … like dirty, smelly rags …”

  Her voice tailed off as she realized that silence had fallen throughout the great hall.

  The MacArthur sat stiffly upright, a sudden, stern look on his face that frightened her. It was Hamish who eventually broke the silence.

  “Amgarad!” he said aloud, in an awed whisper. “It must be. I can’t quite believe it but …” he looked round wildly, “she’s describing Amgarad!” He looked at the MacArthur and threw out his hands in disbelief. “After all this time! Master, how is it possible?”

  The MacArthur raised his hand to quieten the spate of words.

  “First of all let us listen to what the Ranger has to say, Hamish,” he said, turning to the Ranger, his face serious and strained. “Tell me the story of this attack, Ranger, and miss nothing out, for it’s important that we hear every detail.”

  The Ranger retold the story of how he had followed the children and they, in turn, told their tale of the mist and the attack by Amgarad at the well.

  “Was it only the bird you saw?” pressed the MacArthur. “You didn’t see anyone else?”

  As Neil shook his head the MacArthur sat back among the pile of cushions that heaped his chair and looked at Hamish thoughtfully.

  “How very interesting that Amgarad should be here. I wonder how … and why?”

  “And Lord Rothlan?” queried Hamish, walking agitatedly up and down in front of him. “If one is here, then the other must be here, too.”

  “One would think so,” frowned the MacArthur, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “and yet, perhaps not.”

  Sir James coughed. “Who is this Lord Rothlan? May we know?”

  The MacArthur regarded him sombrely. “Alasdair Rothlan was, at one time, one of the most powerful and popular faery lords of the Highlands but he fell out of favour years ago when Prince Charles Edward Stuart came from France to claim the throne.”

  “The Jacobite Rebellion of 1745!” Neil interrupted.

  “As you say,” agreed the MacArthur. “The Jacobite Rebellion. Ach, it was ill-fated from the start and the Prince was badly advised but, as faeries, we naturally supported the Scottish House of Stuart. One of the Lords of the North, Kalman Meriden, was Bonnie Prince Charlie’s strongest supporter, but Rothlan had no respect for the Prince and it was mainly because of him that the rebellion failed. Kalman was furious with Rothlan for betraying the faery cause and summoned the Council to judge him. Rothlan was exiled for the part he played and since then his lands have been ringed by magic. It is here, in the hill that we hold the set of fabulous firestones whose spell keeps the ring of power round Jarishan.”

  “Jarishan?” queried Sir James.

  “Rothlan’s great estate. It was once a place of great beauty but what it will be like now, I cannot tell. The sun never shines there and his famous eagles, his messengers of the skies … well, they were changed to travesties of their former majesty. That I didn’t agree to, as they had done their master’s bidding and the fault wasn’t theirs, but Prince Kalman and the Lords of the North were adamant and I was outvoted. So the eagles became monstrous things, doomed to suffer with their master. As for Alasdair Rothlan; well, he was cut off completely from then on. I’ve never seen him since.”

  “But surely,” Neil said doubtfully, “he must be hundreds of years old by now? And you …?” he broke off in embarrassment.

  The MacArthur smiled. “By your time, I suppose, we are really quite ancient,” he admitted. “But we’re faeries, you see. We don’t age in the same way you do. Our time is different from yours. Alasdair Rothlan is still quite a young man.”

  “And this Amgarad?” queried Neil.

  “Amgarad was the captain of his eagles. I knew him well in the old days. A fine, proud bird.”

  “He isn’t now,” Clara remarked, remembering the foul monster that had attacked them at the well. Her heart softened in pity. “Poor Amgarad,” she said sadly.

  9. The Dragon’s Lair

  A few days after Sir James’s memorable visit, a triumphant Dougal MacLeod also found his way into the hill. As he made his way down the steep tunnels, he was bursting with pride at his own cleverness. Convinced that Sir James was engaged in a mammoth plot to defraud Customs and Excise, he had had no difficulty at all in picking up the illicit pipeline with a metal-detector. Its steady clicking had led him straight to a slit-like opening on the lower slopes of the Park, not far from the distillery itself. Suddenly, he stopped and sniffed. The aroma was unmistakeable. Whisky! Good Scotch whisky!

  “Whisky!” he said aloud. “My, oh my, Sir James, I’ve got you this time!”

  Gleefully he followed the tunnel downwards until he came to a large cavern. By this time, the smell of whisky was overpowering. Moving forward he flashed his torch around the walls of the cave, which, had he but known it, was Arthur’s lair.

  Arthur, as it happened, was in an extremely bad temper. Since their visit to the hill, Sir James and Jamie Todd had been busy in the distillery and between them had managed to rig up a powerful pump that in a few days had reduced Arthur’s wonderful lake to little more than the odd puddle. Bored and disgruntled, he lay (as dragons do) on his bed of treasure and bemoaned his loss.

  It so happened that the beam of the torch passed over Arthur as he reared his horned head to investigate the unaccustomed sound of the metal-detector. Dougal MacLeod froze in absolute horror as his brain registered the unbelieveable sight of a creature he had previously only seen in the décor of Chinese restaurants! Interestedly, Arthur watched as the beam of the torch stopped abruptly and then, gingerly, moved slowly back to light up not only Arthur, but also the magnificent treasure that he lay upon. Amid the glittering piles of gold plate, sovereigns and ornate crowns, sparkled rubies, sapphires, diamonds and emeralds but, more startling than any of them, were jewels that shone with a translucent amber brilliance that pierced Dougal to the heart.

  Transfixed by the sprawling glory of the treasure, he was brought sharply back to reality as the dragon moved its sinuous body and bent its great head to investigate the intruder.

  Gasping in horror at the sudden movement, Dougal involuntarily jerked his torch upwards, blinding Arthur with its glare. The dragon reared in annoyance, spread his wings and gave a roar that shook the cavern, totally drowning out Dougal’s scream of fear as he dropped his metal-detector and ran for his life.

  It was much later that Hamish entered the
MacArthur’s Hall followed by a prisoner who shambled unwillingly after him. Hamish bowed before the MacArthur and gestured towards the bound man at his side.

  “His name, he says, is Dougal MacLeod. I’m thinking that he’s the man that keeps count of all the whisky in Sir James’s wee factory outside.”

  The MacArthur looked disapproving. “I hope ye will not be referring to Sir James’s grand distillery as a ‘wee factory’ in his hearing, Hamish. You know how proud he is of it. Now, where did you find this fellow?”

  “In the tunnels, MacArthur. He must have found Arthur and got a bit of a fright, for we found this weapon in his cave where he dropped it.” Archie stepped forward and waved the metaldetector at MacLeod, who cowered back.

  “Who are you?” thundered the MacArthur. “You come here to threaten us! With weapons!”

  “No, no,” gabbled MacLeod frantically. “Nothing of the kind! I was only following a pipeline from the distillery. It led to a big cave with … well, what looked like a dragon in it!”

  “It was a dragon,” confirmed the MacArthur. “Our dragon. Do you have any objection to our having a dragon?”

  Hastily, MacLeod retracted. “No … no,” he said. “None in the world. It was just a wee bit unexpected, that’s all.”

  “Unexpected! Un – ex – pect – ed!” He took the metal-detector from Archie’s hands and waved it at Dougal MacLeod. “Do you expect me to believe that? You come here with this fearsome weapon to kill our dragon and then say it was unexpected!”

  “But I didn’t come here to kill your dragon,” wailed Dougal.

  By this time, the MacArthur had worked himself into a fine old rage. “You’re all the same,” he screeched. “All the same! All out to kill these poor, harmless, inoffensive creatures with your swords and your lances. Just so that you can go back home and boast of having killed a fierce dragon. Take him out of my sight, Hamish!” He gestured dismissively.

  “But please …” Dougal struggled violently as Hamish led him, none too gently, out of the Hall.