Hunting of the Last Dragon (2 page)

Grandfather stared at him, still whittling furiously
with his knife. Suddenly the knife slipped, and sliced a deep cut across his hand. “There's another kind of death,” he said, not even noticing. “My father spoke of it. And that
was
fire—fire and smoke from hell itself.”

My mother fetched a cloth and a bowl of water, and knelt to bathe his cut. My grandfather babbled on about beasts with wings and fiends from hell, then he started weeping and muttering to our grandmother, though she died afore I was born. Soundless, my mother cried as she bound his bleeding palm.

Addy and Lucy started whimpering, which awoke the twins, who in their turn set up a howling fit to wake the dead. I confess I felt like bawling myself, from the awful fear and grief that fell on me. I looked at my father, seeking strength there; but he was staring into the fire, his face white like my mother's, and he shook all over, as if he looked upon Lucifer himself. It was the first time I had ever seen him afraid. The fear spread through our house like smoke, thick and choking. The four plagues wailed louder, as if they felt it, too, and the noise unnerved me. It must have nettled my father as well, for he cried of a sudden: “For Heaven's love! Give me peace!” Grandfather stopped babbling, but the plagues only howled louder. My father got up and went out, slamming the door behind him, making the flames
leap, and smoke and ashes swirl.

My eyes watered from the smoke, and I wiped them on my sleeve and picked up the mallet again. I tried not to look at my mother, but from the corner of my eye I saw her head bent, her face streaked with tears. She finished binding my grandfather's hand, then went to the four plagues and rocked them gently against her, though they went on bawling heartily and would not be comforted.

The evening was ruined. I finished my boots but, although they were fine, there was no satisfaction in them. Neither was there excitement in tomorrow's journey. Three summers I had worked for our neighbours in their harvest fields, earning pennies to buy a better bow. Now the precious coins gave me no pleasure, and when I lay in bed with my mother and sisters, it was not expectation for the morrow that kept me awake, but a deepened sense of gloom. I was still awake when my father returned, near dawn. He stank of ale, and I supposed he had been drinking with one of our neighbours. He did not come to bed, but threw more wood on the dwindling fire and sat by it, his head in his hands.

Sunlight crept around the tattered edges of the oiled cloths across our windows, and birds sang. My mother got out of bed and began to make barley cakes.
Feigning sleep, I saw my father take her in his arms, and whisper to her. They wept together, very quiet.

Later we all sat on the dirt by the fire and tried to eat the barley cakes she had made. We did not speak. My mind tumbled with thoughts of kinfolk all burned alive, their village with them, and a looming fear I could not name.

The village of Rokeby was some ten miles from my home, but I enjoyed the walk. The day was hot, so I did not take my cloak, only my purse tied to my belt alongside my knife and a small skin of ale to slake my thirst. On my feet were my new boots, mighty comfortable and looking grand, though I say so myself.

My heart grew lighter, the further I got from home and the woe that beset my family. My mother had cried, begging me not to go. My father had looked very grim, and told me to take great care and keep my ears open in Rokeby for further news. I resolved to do no such thing; I had had enough of misery for one day.

To my pleasure I found a fair on the Rokeby village green. It was one of those travelling carnivals with a puppet theatre, stalls selling pies and candied fruits, and pavilions with pictures painted on the sides,
describing the wonders within. There were flute players, a man playing the bagpipes, people dancing, wrestlers, and noisy games of blindman's buff. Adding to the noise were the usual solitary travellers who went to every fair: traders calling out their wares, salt and iron peddlers, ballad singers, and healers with herbs promising cures for everything from carbuncles to witches' curses. I was tempted to spend some of my precious pennies, but went on to the village and sought out the man who made bows, and the fletcher. Then, with my new bow across my back and a fine quiver bristling with arrows—and even some change jingling in my purse—I went back to the fair.

I bought an apple tart to eat. The woman who sold it to me admired my bow. “You ought to test your skill,” she said, pointing to a small crowd across the ground, where a bright target board had been set up. “There's Richard the archer over there, giving a silver florin to anyone who can shoot better than himself. Go and challenge him. A strong lad like you must be right cunning with a bow.”

I could see Richard well. He was skilled, graceful to watch, his aim perfect.

“I think not,” I replied. “'Twould be a shame to win his silver from him so early in the afternoon.”

I wandered off, eating my apple tart, past brightly painted pavilions advertising a fire-eater, a strong man, the world's fattest lady, a bear and a wildcat, and other such marvels. But it was the swordsman's pavilion that caught my eye, with its painting of a well-muscled man wielding a mighty sword. A performance was about to begin, so I paid a coin to the lad at the entrance, and went in.

It was crowded inside, but I squeezed through the throng to the front, where a stage was set up. People talked while we waited, and I heard a man say: “The swordsman is the grandson of a knight, so 'tis said. His sword slew dragons, once. I'll warrant it'll be used again, that blade, afore this summer's out.”

“Aye—used to slice out your foolish tongue,” muttered the woman next to him, and people laughed.

“'Tis nothing to jest about,” said a crone, wrinkled and bent like a willow branch. “I've seen the past, and I've seen the future, and they both are full of fire a-falling from the skies.”

“Mind your tongue, Mother Gloomhart,” said someone else. “'Tis foolish, what you say. And 'tis dangerous, spreading direful thoughts.”

“There's more than thoughts spreading through this place,” said another woman. “My Tomas saw a
devil running down the lane yesterday. Had a pointed tail and horns and red skin, it did, and left an evil smell behind it.”

“Mayhap it farted,” said a lad, and some laughed, though his mother boxed his ears.

Then a man climbed onto the platform, bearing a great sword in his right hand, and we all were silent. He announced: “Tybalt is my name. I do be the grandson of the knight Sir Allun, last of the dragon slayers. This sword has won great victories, and has spilled the blood of many winged beasts. Watch and wonder, for the bravery and skill of noble knights runs in my veins!”

He held the sword blade upright, very still so that we all, as one man, held our breath to see what he would do; then very slowly he swung it downwards and around, in a great and deadly circle before him. Faster it moved, and faster, whistling through the air until I could not see the blade at all, but many blades, circling him with silver light. It moved above his head, then to his left, then his right. Graceful, he moved with it, and it was like a dance, beautiful and marvellous to behold.

The sword flew high in the air, then came down, spinning; we fell back, trampling one another, afraid. But he caught it, and laughed. We all laughed and
cheered, applauding him mightily. He bowed, then looked down upon us all, his eyes alight like fire. He had a powerful face, fierce and handsome and darkly bearded. “I need a man,” he said. “Someone brave and steadfast, not afraid to face death itself.”

No one moved, excepting that men looked down at their feet, or got busy of a sudden whispering to their wives. Tybalt invited several up onto the stage, but each one declined. Then the swordsman's eyes found me.

“Now there's a big brave lad!” he said.

I blushed deep and looked behind me, hoping he spoke of someone else. The woman next to me chuckled and shoved me forward. I had no choice; amid laughter and friendly jests I was hoisted ungracefully onto the stage. During the jostle my quiver tipped and all my arrows clattered across the floor. Embarrassed, I scrambled to pick them up, and heard guffaws from the onlookers. Tybalt put down his sword and crouched to help. Solemn-faced, he put the arrows back in the quiver, then helped me take off my bow and placed it with the quiver out of the way. Then he picked up his sword again and we both stood facing the crowd. He was head and shoulders taller than I, and slender-built, for all his strength.

“What's your name, lad?” he asked, putting an arm across my shoulders.

“Jude,” said I. My voice shook, like the rest of me, though I struggled to look coolheaded.

“Is your lady mother watching us, Jude?”

“Nay. I'm of Doran, here only for today. I came alone.”

“Then this is a lucky day for you”—he smiled—“and for me. For once I can test a lad's nerve without his mother scolding me.”

The people laughed again, doubtless relieved to be safe while a stranger faced death for their amusement. I swallowed hard. I don't think I had ever been so afraid, except once when I came close to kissing Prue.

“First,” said Tybalt, “we've a few doubts to dispel, which these good folk might entertain. Take the sword, Jude.” He held it out to me, the blade still upright, steady in his hands.

I took the weapon, and almost dropped it. By God's bones, 'twas heavy! I staggered at the weight of it, and the people laughed again, thinking I acted the fool.

“Hold the blade straight up,” Tybalt said quietly. “Keep the weight balanced, 'twill be easier.” Then he said aloud, so all could hear: “There has been a suggestion, Jude, that this sword is merely a harmless wooden toy painted to look as steel. Is it wood, think you?”

“'Tis a mite heavy for wood,” I said, struggling to hold the sword upright. My arms ached, and I was afeared I'd drop the thing and cut off someone's feet, or worse. Seeing my struggle, Tybalt took the weapon back. He spun it in a slow arc, and I scuttled back, making the people hoot and laugh again.

Tybalt looked across the crowd, then said to one of the elderly women, “Give me an apple from your basket, good mother.” An apple was thrown up onto the stage. He caught it deftly, then gave it to me. “Throw it high, straight up,” he said, “then stand back, quick.”

I did as he commanded, and as the apple came down he swung his blade. The fruit fell to the floor, sliced clean into two, and I picked up the pieces and held them out for the people to see. There were whistles and cheers.

“I see you're an archer, Jude,” Tybalt said, when they had settled down. “A hunter. You know, then, how to move slow and quiet, how to stand motionless, and hardly breathe?”

“I've not hunted much,” I confessed.

“But you can stand still, Jude?”

“Aye.”

He took me to the centre of the stage and stood me
so I faced the people. They looked wrought up, eager. I suppose it is how they watch at a hanging, all gaping and gawking. Tybalt pressed my arms closer to my sides, tucking my elbows against my belt. I stared across the heads of the onlookers and tried to calm my thudding heart. Tybalt stood beside me, his sword raised. “Remember how you stand when about to shoot a stag,” he said, very soft. “You do not move, nor breathe. Stand like that for me. Now.”

I froze like a hare when it first hears the hunter. I was aware of the soft whirring of the blade, slow at first, then fast. It whistled about me, a silver wind across my skin, now beside me, now in front, now above. I felt a movement on my hair, light as thistledown, then something black brushed my face. It was a lock of my own hair, tumbling to the floor. I heard a woman scream, and others gasped. The people, the pavilion walls, were misty as a dream. Nought was real, save that steel-cold wind. It swept my scalp again, and another tangle fell. I remember thinking, in that uncanny calm betwixt terror and trust, of my mother, and how she would give a hundred barley cakes to witness this. She used to sit on me to cut my hair, and of late had given up the battle altogether. And here I was, being shorn half bald, without a word of protest!
She could hire Tybalt, and have the four plagues trimmed as well, right quick, and my father. More hair fell. And then the steel slowed, and stopped.

I looked at Tybalt. Sweat poured off him, and his shirt was wet.

“Brave lad,” he said, with that dark smile of his, and I fair bristled with pride. “I've had noble soldiers flinch from my blade. Give a cheer for Jude of Doran, good village folk. You have a brave man among you this day.” There was applause again, stamping and cheering and whistling. Dizzy with success, I was helped down off the stage. As I left, someone called that I had forgot my bow and arrows, and a man chuckled as he handed them to me.

Outside, I slung my quiver and bow across my back, passed my hand across my oddly shaven scalp, and walked with my head high. Someone in the crowd bumped into me and cursed me heartily, and I remember feeling greatly affronted by his disrespect. Could he not tell—could none in that crowd tell—that I, Jude of Doran, had that very hour faced death, and not been moved? I wanted to shout my valour to the skies. I tell you, Brother Benedict, if ever my soul flew and touched the face of God, it was then. I'll warrant all your prayers and petitions never got you nearer paradise than
Tybalt's sword got me, that day.

Talking of paradise, it must be almost time for prayers. Take your rest, Brother, for we wrote much yesterday, and 'twould be a calamity to wear you out this early in my narrative, afore I've got to the enthralling part.