The Shadow Companion

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “We should—”

  “Probably not bother him,” Ailis agreed. They turned to go down the right-hand tunnel when there was a heavy, unnerving noise. Gerard hesitated, and a huge, scaled foot with claws the size of daggers, only twice as thick—and sharp—came out of the darkness at them. It moved with astonishing quickness for something so large, flattening Gerard against the floor. Thankfully, the claws did not puncture anything more than the fabric of his tunic.

  “Humans! Come!”

  “Maybe…we should…stop by and pay our…respects,” Gerard suggested breathlessly, his face turned to avoid breathing in the dust from the stone floor. He sounded like one or more of his ribs might be broken.

  “Or we could just leave you to explain,” Newt suggested. “Seeing as how you’re the one he got along with so well last time.

  “All right, it was just an idea,” he said hastily, when Ailis and Gerard both glared at him.

  The huge dragon’s paw started to pull back into the corridor, slowly but inevitably dragging Gerard back with it. Helpless to do anything else, Ailis and Newt followed.

  As they walked, the corridor opened into a larger cavern—not the treasure-trove nesting room they had found the dragon in the first time, but it was still impressive for being deep inside a mountain. A red glow came from the tiny flamelets rising from the dragon’s nostrils, like torches in the night. Light came down through stone chimneys that must lead all the way up to the surface, carrying faint sunlight down into the depths.

  The dragon had drawn Gerard to him the way a cat might a mouse, letting him go once all three were inside the cavern.

  It was still magnificent, with its silvery blue scales, and the elongated, muscled body leading to a thick, arched neck and tapered, triangular head. Its eyes glared down at them with something beyond ire, and approaching madness.

  “Sir Dragon, we—” Gerard began, rolling out of immediate reach and getting up onto his knees, crouching in a pose of nonaggressive readiness. “We did not—”

  “Silence!”

  Gerard shut up.

  “You have returned.” The dragon’s voice softened to a cold rumble. It sniffed the air, steam and more firelets rising from his great nostrils as he did so. “You are a knight, now?”

  “Not yet, no. I—”

  “You lie! I was told that you would lie!” A dragon’s roar was bad enough when heard at a distance. In close quarters, in an echoing stone cavern, it was so terrible as to make the bones in your head vibrate.

  “I do not lie!” Gerard protested, stung by the accusation.

  Ailis, more practically, asked, “Who told you that he would lie?”

  “You have reneged. You never planned to honor your bargain.”

  “Sir Dragon, I had—have—no intention of reneging. If I had, why would I return now? Unready, yes, I am, but also honest. I am a human of my word. My good word.”

  The dragon did not seem appeased. Nor did it answer Ailis’s question.

  “You have returned. We will have our battle. Now.”

  That had been the bargain they had made the last time: They wanted the piece of the talisman they needed, which the dragon possessed. The dragon had wanted fame and glory, of the sort which could come only from a great battle with a knight of reputation.

  Gerard had promised to return when he was made a knight and give the dragon that battle to the death.

  They had not anticipated that the dragon would not believe—or care—that Gerard was not yet a knight.

  “Face me, human. Or die like a sheep, bleating in fear.”

  The dragon, with its own sort of honor, was ignoring Newt and Ailis. She was frantically searching her memory for any kind of spell or magic that could get them out of this, but it was one thing to melt rocks, call a beast, or even force Merlin to come speak to her. It was another to try and affect such a huge, intelligent, powerful, angry creature—especially when it was well within claw-swipe distance. Even a halfhearted blow from that paw, and she would never work any magic ever again.

  How in heaven’s name could Gerard muster anything against it? Yes, he had taken Morgain down, sword to sword, but she had chosen not to work magic, and to face him on his own terms. The dragon would have no such limitations.

  “Go stand against the far wall,” Gerard told them, getting to his feet.

  “Ger, we can—”

  “No.” Gerard stopped whatever Newt was going to offer. “This is mine to do. You two—whatever happens, you still have to find what we’re here for. You can’t afford to fail.”

  He got to his feet, slowly and deliberately brushing himself off. He made sure that his sword belt was still secured, and that his weapons had taken no damage during his undignified entrance to the cavern.

  Watching him, Ailis realized that he was imagining that he was Sir Lancelot. Not now, when he was known to be such a great and gallant fighter, the king’s best-loved knight, but back before, when he first came to Camelot and was mocked for being honest, for being awkward and homely. A great knight Lancelot might be, but he would never be handsome. But Sir Lancelot knew that, and cared not, so long as in battle he could be glorious. Gerard was handsome, or would be, but like Lancelot he cared more for his actions than his appearance.

  Ailis was terrified for her oldest friend. But she was proud of him, too. So when he looked her way, briefly, she gave him a brave smile and a nod. You’ll do what needs to be done, she thought. And so will we. Don’t worry about us.

  Then she took Newt’s hand, tugging at him until he moved away with her, giving the two, knight and dragon, room to face each other.

  “If Gerard…”

  “He won’t. And if he does…we take his sword back to Arthur, and tell him his man fought bravely, and well.” Her words stuck in her throat. “But first we have to find what we came for.”

  They came upon a niche in the wall that was large enough for both of them to fit in, and made themselves as comfortable as possible. They might have gone on, leaving Gerard to his fate and made use of the time. But while they were willing to go on afterward, they would not leave him now.

  “Sir Dragon,” Gerard said, standing in the open space before the dragon, looking up to the proud head, the long, sinuous neck, the great, scaled body. “I have returned, as promised, to give you what challenge this human form might offer—and to win.”

  Dragon laughter came out in smoke rings.

  “Come then, human. Give me a challenge.”

  Back when he worked in the kennels, Newt used to wade into the middle of dogfights, breaking up even the most vicious-situation with a clout to the head or a swing of a stick. He didn’t think that there was anything that could unnerve him. But watching Gerard draw his sword—an ordinary, dark-edged length of metal, nothing flashy or enchanted—against the muscled, dangerous bulk of the dragon made him shiver.

  “I can’t watch,” he said, but yet was unable to turn his head away.

  The dragon lunged, his long neck darting like a serpent, the great head coming in far too close to Gerard’s body. But the boy knew it for a feint, ignoring the snapping teeth in favor of the foreleg which also came in, claws outstretched. His sword hit against one claw, slid along the length of it, and sliced into the scaled pad underneath, causing thick purple blood to well up from the cut.

  First blooding went to Gerard. The dragon didn’t seem at all bothered by it.

  Then the battle began in earnest, and Newt could barely follow the action. Ailis’s occasional comments made him realize that she knew far more of battle techniques than he did. He could tell you how to train a horse to perform moves with a knight on horseback, and how to treat the wounds incurred in battle, but he had never bothered to watch the moves being performed. Ailis, with her time spent in Camelot proper, had seen more tournaments.

  She had, in fact, lived through a real battle, the one in which she was orphaned. That thought made Newt’s arm around her shoulder tighten, to offer comfort, but she didn’t seem
to even notice.

  “Oh, good move, that was—no! Oh.” A sigh of relief, as Gerard spun and escaped the claw, parrying with the flat of his blade. The noises filling the cavern were a mixture of heavy slapping thuds of feet, the clang of metal against claw, and the sound of Gerard’s breathing, which was becoming more and more labored. A bad blow with one paw had left his right arm at a painful-looking angle. He switched the sword to his left arm, and continued fighting.

  “He can’t…” Newt started to say.

  “He will,” Ailis said fiercely, but without confidence.

  He couldn’t, of course. Perhaps not even the best of knights could have, not against a full-grown dragon. After all, were they not so deadly, they would not be so feared.

  “No!” Newt wasn’t sure who had cried out, Ailis or himself, or both. Gerard went down, a gash across his left leg bleeding through his clothing.

  The dragon raised itself to full height, clearly savoring the moment.

  Gerard got up on his uninjured leg, using the sword as a crutch, and stared back at the dragon. His body shook, but his gaze was steady. Newt tried to look anywhere else rather than see what was about to happen. He noticed that the sunlight coming down into the chamber had strengthened—the sun must have been at such an angle as to shine directly into the opening. One beam in particular caught Gerard’s form, casting a long narrow darkness against the blood-splattered ground.

  “The Grail hides in shadows, in long dark shadows. Bring the light, and dispel the shadows. Find the Grail.”

  He couldn’t remember why the words echoed in his head at that exact moment. Brother Jannot. Long dark shadows. The Grail. Bring the light, and dispel the shadows.

  The dragon had already led the way to one talisman—perhaps it knew the whereabouts of a second, too. Newt wondered how to dispel the darkness. Have Ailis set another fire? But how, without further angering the dragon? What to do? His thoughts were chasing each other in frantic movements—anything to keep from thinking about Gerard and what was about to happen.

  “Not a great battle, not one to speak of through the ages, but satisfying nonetheless,” the dragon said in its deep, rumbling voice. “Will you beg for mercy, now?”

  “Abide…abide by honor,” was all Gerard said. “Allow my companions to go on their way, with no hindrance, and finish this.”

  “That is your only word?” The dragon sounded almost disappointed. “You will not beg?”

  “For my companions, on your honor,” Gerard repeated, placing his blood-caked sword on the ground before him. “For myself, nothing save a worthy ending.”

  The dragon studied him, then nodded with what looked almost to be a sneer. “Prettily said. I don’t believe a word of it, but despite what the shadowed one said, you did come back and honor your vow, and the way you die does matter to you humans, so I will grant that last request.”

  All of Gerard’s dreams, his visions of glory, of being the one to find the Grail, save the fair maiden, capture the evildoer, win renown as the bravest, wisest, most wonderful of Arthur’s knights…it all faded, and he let it go.

  What mattered was the here and now. All that mattered was that he fulfill his promise, no matter how mistaken the dragon might be about his worth.

  All that mattered now was that Ailis and Newt be free to continue with their own quest, and that Morgain be freed from her unholy bargain, that the threat to the kingdom be removed. He heard Ailis’s cry, Newt’s voice in response, but it was all distant as Camelot, now.

  Gerard made his peace with all of that, and bent his head to receive the fatal blow.

  Newt thought that he was imagining it, at first: that the strain had made him hallucinate. Then Ailis’s cry showed that she had heard it as well. A chiming noise, gentle as a summer’s breeze, clear as a moonlit night. It made him feel as though all the joy had left the world, and then returned but through a different door.

  It filled the cavern, every span of it, echoing off the walls, sinking into the air they breathed, their skin, bones, and blood. It made Newt remember, for the first time in years, his mother’s tears.

  He looked up, eyes wide, and saw the dragon rearing back even farther, its head rising to the roof of the cavern, its expression astonished and angry.

  The chime sounded again, rising as the echoes of the first peal faded, and the dragon’s entire body convulsed, the twitch beginning in its gut, working all the way up its massive torso. Newt could almost see each scale bulge and ripple as something terrible happened within the dragon’s body, rising all the way up the dragon’s long, sinewy neck.

  “He looks”—not even the glory of the sound could stop the comment from coming out of his mouth—“like he’s going to throw up!”

  The dragon shook its head, swinging its neck back and forth, as though trying to deny whatever was happening. A third chime sounded, this time more insistent, and Ailis gasped. “It’s coming from inside the dragon!”

  Even as they both realized the origin of the sound, the dragon’s mouth opened, and a blast of flame emerged.

  Cold flame. Newt realized even as he shielded Ailis with his body. Constans rose up on his shoulder, its neck stretched out to greet the fire, a smaller, more slender version of the dragon. His tongue flicked out in anticipation.

  The flame broke over the salamander like water flowing around a sword, and flowed past them as formless and gentle as a mother’s kiss.

  Newt dared to look over his shoulder, and his jaw fell open. Whatever shocks, whatever surprises he had dealt with until now were nothing compared to the sight of what was being belched from the dragon’s gut.

  It landed a few paces from them, the glow dissipating from around it as it fell. The dragon’s body folded in on itself, the great neck coiling back down onto its shoulders, torso and tail curling into a sleeping pose. The glaring eyes flickered shut.

  Newt held his breath. The dragon did not move.

  The last remnant of the chimes faded entirely, leaving behind nothing but a patient silence.

  “Ailis.” Newt’s voice was hoarse, as though he had been screaming for months. He cleared his throat, wincing at how much it hurt, and tried again. “Ailis.”

  She opened her eyes, pulling away from Newt’s protective hug, and looked around, visibly bracing herself for the sight of Gerard, sprawled lifeless and bloody on the cavern floor.

  He was bloody, yes, but still breathing. At least until he looked up and saw the dragon, no longer any threat to him. His skin flushed, then went white, and he fell back to his knees, wincing in pain as he did so.

  “We did it,” he said in awe. “We found the Grail.”

  “From the body of the last dragon left in England,” Newt said, getting to his feet and walking over on wobbly legs, looking down in wonder.

  It was such a simple thing: a plain wooden goblet, scratched and battered from use and age. The wood was dark, with a purple-tinged grain.

  “Olivewood,” Newt said, then blinked, surprised that he had known it.

  Gerard reached out to touch it, then stopped. It was just a cup, a thing that would have looked totally ordinary next to any knight’s trencher back in Camelot. But there was no doubt among them what it truly was.

  “I wonder if the dragon swallowed it, thinking it was treasure…or if someone put it there, for safekeeping.” Ailis had gone directly to Gerard, checking his leg, then his arm. She tried to pull strips off her skirt in order to create a bandage. The fabric was tough to tear, so she pulled Gerard’s dagger from his belt without him even noticing, using it to slice at the fabric.

  “For safekeeping? Ow!” He complained as she tied the makeshift bandage around his leg.

  “It makes as much sense as hiding it in a forest,” she retorted, taking refuge in arguing. “Maybe…maybe the dragon’s being magical itself, by its very nature, hid the magic of the Grail…”

  “How?” Gerard asked.

  “Things magical. They feel different.” She didn’t know how else to explai
n what she could see so clearly. “I can feel it now, coming off the Grail. I couldn’t sense it before, like the dragon blocked it. But what made the dragon give it up? And why is it sleeping now?”

  “Who cares?” Gerard’s pain and defeat was forgotten as he stared at the prize. “We did it. We won the Grail!”

  Ailis pulled the second bandage around his arm tighter than she might have. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you, back when Arthur first announced this entire Quest idea. The Grail’s not something to be won. It has to be earned. How many times do I have to tell you anything before you listen?”

  Gerard dimly remembered her saying something like that. He and Mak had been discussing their slim chances of being taken along on the Quest, and she had come along and doused their schemes and plans.

  “We were here when the dragon coughed it up,” Newt said. “That has to count for something.”

  “I think…” Ailis looked at Gerard, speculatively. “I think Ger’s willingness to do the right thing, facing the dragon like he promised, had something to do with it.”

  He could feel his face turning red. Now that the danger was passed, his thoughts and emotions felt overdone, silly.

  “But all it did was make the dragon pass along the Grail,” she went on. “It didn’t give it to us.”

  “There’s a difference?” Newt seemed uncertain.

  “There is.” On that point, she was definite. “None of us is a bad person—we’re all pretty good, actually. Loyal. Brave. But we’re not without sin. We’re not…Sir Galahad, for example.” Sir Galahad the Pure, as he was known throughout the land, was said to never argue, never fuss, but was serene and mild even under the worst conditions. It was very irritating to most of his fellow knights, even as they admired his piety and goodness.

  “If what you’re saying is true, though, I did earn it,” Gerard insisted. But his voice was uncertain, and his gaze flickered around the cavern, settling on anything except the Grail, as though it might rise up and refute him.

  “You freed it. Or called it. But if we earned it, why isn’t it all glowing or anything, the way it is in all the parchments and tapestries?”