The Hunting of the Last Dragon Read online

“Well, that’d be telling a great secret,” said Tybalt. “But you may be sure, she’s rare and precious.”

  Other questions were asked, not all answered. During them the maid remained very still, her hands folded in her lap, her small, strange face uplifted. Around me, people began to leave. Tybalt departed, doubtless to his own tent for another breathtaking performance with his sword, leaving the other man to stand guard. I stayed, I know not why, looking at the freakish girl upon the stool. Slowly she bent and bound the linen strips about her feet again, then pulled on her tiny shoes. When she raised her head, I alone was left.

  As her gaze met mine, her lofty look disappeared, and to my surprise she smiled.

  “You let Tybalt play his sword about you,” she said. Her soft voice was mildly accented. Her words, and the expression on her face, startled me.

  “How do you know?” I asked. It felt odd, exchanging words with her.

  “Your hair,” she said.

  “Ah.” I touched the top of my head, feeling the bristles. “Well . . .” Tongue-tied again, as always, with a maid—even a freakish one.

  “He has done that but few times before,” she said.

  “Done what?” I asked.

  “Shaved off hair. Most people tremble so, he dares not do it. You must have been right brave.”

  “Not brave,” I said, and felt my face grow hot. “Scared stiff, more like.”

  Again she smiled, then her guard roughly picked her up and carried her out an exit at the back of the tent. As they went outside I glimpsed a cage with a dark grey canvas across the top.

  I was left alone in the silence. A strange feeling fell on me. I cannot say ’twas fate, or a foreknowing, but it was something akin to it. I knew that we should meet again.

  Do you need rest, Brother? You yawn—a yawn brought on by the evening’s warmth and the mead, I hope, and not because my tale is dull. I thought that I was getting into the swing of it quite well. Ah—I just noticed—your candles are near burned out. We’ll continue after dinner on the morrow, and I’ll tell you what I found when I went home.

  four

  Hail, Brother. ’Tis straight into the tale today, for this is the hardest part of it for me, and the sooner done, the better.

  On the way back to Doran I practised with my new bow: shot at a hare and hit a hill. The wind was stronger than I judged, and sent my arrow amiss. The road seemed longer, too, and it was sunset when I left the woods and began to climb the last rise that lay between my home and me. Most of the time I walked with my head down, watching the road for ruts and holes, but as I left the woods and began to climb the hill I smelled smoke in the air, and raised my eyes. I saw a terrible thing. The brow of the hill still hid my village, but the sky above Doran was black with smoke, spreading high and wide, veiling the low sun.

  Disbelief went through me first, and then a fear so deep that I could scarcely breathe. I ran up the hill, stumbling in my haste, half blind with acrid fumes, fine ash, and tears.

  Doran was gone. Burned bare. Trees, wheat, farm carts, ploughs, vegetable plots, sheep, goats, chickens—everything was gone. Only some of the clay block walls of the cottages still stood, and they were black, many cracked and fallen in the heat. Thatched roofs were gone, the little wattle fences between the houses, the wooden sheds where pigs were kept, the ploughs and carts—all gone. I recognised nothing, for everything was black. Even the little lanes had vanished, or I could not make them out with fences and gardens and farm buildings disappeared. There was nothing. Nothing but ash and glowing embers, and smoke. And the stink . . .

  I don’t remember much of that night. I still have nightmares of running to and fro on the edges of the glowing ash, choking and retching in the smoke, howling for my parents, for little Addy and Lucy and the twins, and Grandfather. In my dreams the air is full of screams and wails, and I suppose they were mine. I could see my home, a blackened husk. I tried to run to it, but the embers and heat and fumes beat me back. The air was full of the smell of roasted meat. And there was another smell, deeper than the smoke, a sulfurous smell that stung my eyes and nose, and tasted bitter in my mouth. I still can taste it, even now.

  The next thing I remember clearly is washing my hands at dawn, in the stream that ran to the ruined mill. My palms were blistered, bleeding, covered in black ash. My clothes were filthy, everything was black, and the soles of my boots were scorched. I remember that I washed my face in the stream, and looked up after, expecting to see the village there as it had always been, and Addy running up to vex me with some new game she wanted me to play. Several times I did that, washed and looked up, craving to see Doran again the way it was.

  But it was not, and Addy never came.

  There was no wind, and the day was hot, uncannily quiet. No birds sang, no cattle lowed, and no crickets chirped. I found one tree at the edge of what had been the south wheat-field. I climbed up and sat there, high in the branches among the ash-laden leaves. Hiding, perchance. Waiting.

  From there I could see the layout of the village, and better make out where the houses had been, though much was hard to recognise. Scattered in the ashes, and across the stubble in the charred fields, were distorted piles of blackness. I realised, after staring at them for some time, what they were, and horror so great came over me that I screamed and wept, and curled up into a little ball in the tree, and prayed for death, cursing the mischance that had led me out of the village that day, guilty that they all had died and I had not. Then I slept, evil dreams mingling with the stink of smoke and death.

  I awoke with a shout and an almighty crash, and found myself flat on my back on the ground, with human legs all around me. I cried and laughed, thinking they were my own Doran folk, and it had all been a dreadful dream; but then a man bent over me, and I saw that it was Tybalt. I could tell from his face, and from the other faces bending close, that it was no dream. Around me, people were arguing about what caused the fire. Some were saying it had been soldiers; others said it was the wrath of God, or the beginning of Judgement Day. Then someone said the Black Death must have come to Doran, and the people had shut themselves in and burned themselves and all they had, to keep the pestilence from spreading. I lost my wits, I think; I seem to remember howling like a madman, and kicking and biting the people who tried to help me. I refused the food and drink they offered me, even refused to touch my bow and arrows, which a boy had found somewhere. I am ashamed to think how rude I was to them, telling them to sod off and leave me be. Tybalt tried to reason with me, but I swore at him, and in the end he forced me into the long covered wagon he travelled with and slept in, with his family. I fought, and he hit me, I think, for I woke up with a throbbing head and aching jaw, and found myself alone in the wagon, being jolted along the road like a prisoner going to his hanging. My very teeth rattled, my head ached, and my heart was so sore I wept in pity for myself.

  And that, Brother Benedict, is how I came to be staying with Tybalt’s family, and how I came to meet up again with Lizzie Little-feet.

  I have told enough for today, for thinking on these things makes me mortal tired. I’ll go for a walk around the monastery gardens, for they are very beautiful, and there is peace in them. Mayhap I’ll find Brother Tobit in the vineyard, with his hoe and cheery face and wicked jokes. Did he ever tell you the story about Adam and Eve and how they— By God’s bones! Are you writing this down, as well? I’m off!

  five

  Brother, I’m hot with haste in getting here! I’m sorry I’m late; I’ve been talking with the monk in charge of the vineyards. He said the grapes are ripe for harvest, and that soon you will all be busy making wine and mead. With a twinkle in his eye, he told me that the Abbot said my pies are not quite to his taste, and henceforth I’m to help in the winery. I knew the Abbot would soon repent of letting me loose in his kitchen! And the winery will suit me well. Are you still bent on writing every word? God’s precious heart—it shall take till Christmastide to write my tale! Well, now that you’ve got the vital stuff down
, we’ll continue with the story.

  They were passing strange, those first days with Tybalt’s people, more dream than real. When my anger was spent I slipped into a pit of woe so deep I thought that I would never claw my way out. Tybalt and his family left me mostly to myself. While we travelled I stayed in their wagon, resting on a straw mattress, not caring that only frail crones and giggling maids travelled in the wagon with me. I could not have walked, or ridden a horse even if they gave me one; my strength had fled, as if millstones weighed me down. I spoke to no one, ate little of what they put in front of me, and drank deep of ale, which numbed my pain a bit. When we were camped I slept wrapped in a rug on the ground underneath Tybalt’s wagon. Although the weather was warm, I was deadly cold.

  I recall that one morning we stopped near a town and there was some debate, between Tybalt and the others, as to whether they should travel on or tarry there. Tybalt owned the fair, and in any discussion his word was always the last. In the end Tybalt and his two sons went to buy bread and extra food, while we stayed outside the city walls, with the horses and wagons. While we waited I heard the church bells tolling, and someone said it was the Feast of Corpus Christi. I thought of all the feast days I had gone to mass in the church of Doran, and of the bright paintings on the church walls, the candles and incense, the familiar rituals, and our old priest chanting the prayers in Latin, which I didn’t understand, of course, but loved for the richness of his voice. I enjoyed the feast days, since on them I didn’t have to tend the swine, and in the evenings we all danced in the churchyard and sang wild songs the priest disapproved of. Sometimes I had managed to hug Prue’s waist.

  Alas! There’d be no embracing now, not of her nor anyone else I loved. I was getting myself right woeful, when Tybalt and his sons came back with enough provisions for a siege. They had heard talk in the town, they said, of other villages that were burned, and of survivors, half mad with fear and grief, who swore they had seen a winged beast. The townsfolk were living in fear, and every day at sundown they extinguished all their lamps and fires, to keep the town hid in the dark.

  “There are warnings spoken at every gate and tavern door,” said Tybalt’s elder son. He was Richard, the archer I had seen at the fair. “People are advised not to travel unless it’s necessary, and then to keep away from open fields and roads. And they’re told not to light fires at night, for that is when the dragon hunts, and it may be drawn to the smell of cooking meat.”

  “They’re all mistook,” said Tybalt. “The dragons were killed, every one, near sixty summers past. My own grandfather slew the last of them, and searched for seven years after through the caves and the mountains, destroying all the eggs. My father helped him in those searches, and spilled some dragon yolk himself, so he told me. However, something’s causing fires. Myself, I think it’s those mad Scots, riding down from the north and plundering our villages and setting everything afire, just to taunt us. We’ll not journey on the roads while they’re about, but settle in the woods and wait for the savagery to stop.”

  I remembered what my father had said about there being no hoofprints around his brother’s village after it were burned; and there had been no hoofprints in the fields around Doran, either. I thought Tybalt’s notion wrong, but said nothing.

  Tybalt commanded us to unpack the sacks of provisions and share them fairly. That done, we journeyed on.

  For several days we camped in one place in a forest, beside a river. During the day I sat by the water and did nothing. Once some children came and stood in a row in front of me, grinning and giggling. A girl carried a little stone, which she threw at me, striking me on the temple. I felt blood trickle down my cheek, but did not move.

  “Mad boy, mad boy,” she said, and bent to pick up a clod of earth. Then she began a silly rhyme, which the others took up.

  “Jude of Doran spent a florin

  At the Rokeby fair,

  Drank from a flagon while a dragon

  Burned his village bare.”

  Over and over they sang it, throwing stones and dirt at me, until Tybalt roared at them and they ran off, laughing and shrieking, to torment the freak.

  I stayed where I was by the river, and sank deeper into misery. Tybalt came and sat by me. After a time he said, with gentleness: “I know you have a brave heart, Jude, though it’s been sorely tested of late. But it’s time to put an end to woe. Some matters can’t be mended, and we have to go on as best we may.”

  I knew he spoke fair enough, yet I could not banish the memory of my charred village, and could not stop thinking of how people must have panicked, fleeing through the wheat until even that was set afire. Images blazed through my mind, horrific, unbearable. I bent my head on my arms again, and felt Tybalt put a hand upon my shoulder.

  “Don’t dwell on it, lad,” he said. “When you’re ready, work will help. It’ll help us, as well as yourself.”

  That evening I drank too much ale for my good, and got up in the night to be sick in the river. When I turned to go back a man stood there, his bow drawn and an arrow in place. I could not see his face, for although it was a moonlit night, we were under trees and the shadows were black. I thought of robbers, and near spewed again, from sheer fright; but then he spoke and I realised he was Richard.

  “’Tis you,” he said, “wasting my father’s ale.”

  “Sorry,” said I.

  “Aye, so you ought to be,” he muttered. We were standing close, and I could see the bitter twist of his mouth and his narrowed eyes. He was tall and well-favoured, like his father. “My father rescued you,” he said, “because he thought you had courage, and that you were an archer and would help me hunt to keep his people fed. You’re a sorry disappointment, Jude of Doran.”

  His opinion wasn’t worth a turd to me, but I dared not tell him so. I asked, careless-like, “You’re hunting tonight?”

  “Nay. I’m keeping watch.” As he said it he glanced at the skies above the river. I followed his gaze, but saw nought save stars and a thin crescent moon.

  “What do you watch for?” I asked. “Marauding Scots?”

  “The winged beast,” he replied, his voice hushed, his eyes still on the stars. “They say the dragons were exceeding beautiful, for all their deadliness.”

  “They also say the dragons are dead and gone. Your own father says that.”

  “He’s mistook. A dragon has survived, I know it. And I’d give half my life to see the creature.”

  “If you do see a dragon, you might well give half your life,” I said. “Mayhap all of it.”

  He gave me a look then that, if a witch had given it, would have withered me to a toad. “You’re a craven fool, Jude of Doran,” he said. “You forget whose blood runs in my veins. No beast has the power to strike fear into me, whether or not it has wings and spits fire. But you—you’re afraid of your own name. You waste your days pining away like a weakling maid, no good to anyone. If I alone were spared out of a whole village, I’d be looking for the reason why, and being glad for it. You don’t deserve your good fortune.”

  “Good fortune?” I cried, so loud that he hushed me, for people were sleeping all around. “Good fortune?”

  “Aye,” he said, bitter-soft. “Good fortune.”

  He spat on the ground and walked away, his footsteps silent, true hunter’s steps.

  For most of that night I lay awake, haunted by his words. But though I thought till my head ached, I could find no reason why I alone was left alive. On the morrow, still sunk in grief, I went back to sitting by the river, in the shade of a tree. The day was hellish hot—a foretaste of the uncanny heat that would last all summer long. Some later blamed the heat, and the dried-up ponds and wells, for the terrible spread of the fires and the utter devastation of the villages that were struck.

  Later that morning Richard crept up behind me and hit me over the head with four dead hares. While I sprawled in the dust, he said, “Earn your keep. Go and feed the animals.”

  So I did, giving the bea
r and wildcat two corpses each. The cat ate hers in a moment, but the bear lay panting in the heat and did not even lift its head. There was dried foam about its mouth, and its eyes were glazed. Neither beast had water. While there I noticed that the cover on the freak’s cage had been folded back, and she was hunched in one corner, rocking, her head bent and her arms about her knees. The floor of her cage was covered in rotting grass, and the red dress she had worn for her performance in the fair was rolled in a bundle in one corner. She wore a muck-stained shift and no shoes, but her feet were tightly bound in rags. In another corner was a bucket, near to overflowing, which she used as a privy, and near the cage door a bowl she must have used for food. It had maggots in it. There was a cleaner bowl, too, that I suppose was for water, though it was empty then. There were blowflies everywhere, even in her hair, though she made no move to brush them off. Her cage stank, bad almost as the bear’s.

  Curious, I went and stood in front of her. She did not notice me at first, but went on rocking, back and forth, back and forth. Suddenly she looked up, and I saw that she was crying. I wanted to flee, to have no part of her misery, for my own was heavy enough; but I stayed, mayhap because she once had smiled on me and called me brave.

  Of a sudden I had a disturbing thought. Feed the animals, Richard had said. Had he by chance meant Lizzie Little-feet as well?

  “What do they give you to eat?” I asked.

  She turned her face away towards the trees, and did not reply. Her skin was begrimed with dirt, sweat, tears, and snot, and I looked again at her maggoty bowl and filthy floor, and almost retched. I wished I had never heard her speak. It would be easier to think she had no reason, no feelings.

  I repeated my question and this time she replied, though she still would not look at me. “Nothing,” she said. “They’ve not fed me since the fair.” Her voice was low and cracked, and she must have been suffering a cruel thirst.

  “I’ll ask Tybalt for some food for you,” I said.