Dragonslayer: A Novel (29 page)

"Why should
you
be sorry?"

"To send a boy on a man's errand and then not even to equip him properly! To give him damaged weapons! Bah!" He flung the haft into his forge.

"It wasn't your fault," Galen said.

"Fault? Well, it's never anyone's fault, is it? Just . . . circumstances. We all tried our best, I guess."

Galen nodded doubtfully. Had he tried his best? He had done battle with Vermithrax; he had shown that he had courage enough when the time for conflict came. But he had also shown that courage was not enough. He remembered Ulrich's patient attempts to give him the power that might have destroyed Vermithrax, saved Swanscombe, and he remembered with regret his own indifference. He knew the disappointment Ulrich must have felt.
Someday you will need this charm. You must try harder, Galen!
And he had tried harder—or at least pretended to try; but the hills had been too green, the river too beguiling. The sorcery that would have taken him to the heart of life itself had seemed too remote, and he had preferred lazy afternoons and magic tricks. He had lost his chance, forever.

"Perhaps old Greil is right," Simon went on. "He's a posturing fool, but perhaps he's right. The Old Magic is dying out, Galen, isn't it?"

"Yes," Galen said weakly.

"Dying out," Simon said, looking at him with a strange intensity. "All over Urland. All over the world. The Old Magic and the magic places. Where are they now, Galen? Hmm? How long since you passed an oak grove interwoven with mistletoe and saw wreaths that the old priests left?"

"Only once," Galen said, "a long time ago."

"Or seen one of the stone circles that was not toppling and overgrown, but kept fresh and its altar used?"

Galen shook his head. "Not ever," he said.

"Or on a May evening, come upon a celebration to the horned god?"

"Never," Galen said.

"Dying out. All dying out. And do you know what is taking its place?" Simon gestured down the road, where a small group of villagers had gathered around Greil and his cross.

"Christianity?"

Simon nodded. "Greil may be right. If there are enough of them . . ."

"But . . ." Galen stammered, grappling with this new possibility. The image of Ulrich in all his majesty rose before him, infinitely preferable to the ragtag Christians who had passed by Cragganmore, preaching their strange tale. He could not believe that they would ever equal Ulrich, or that their faith could challenge the balanced powers of the elements. And yet, he recalled that Ulrich's magic had not saved even himself, that the old sorcerer was but a handful of ashes in a leather pouch. And he recalled too the odd respect he had felt for Jacopus at the moment of his death.

Far down the road, Greil's bell began to toll again; he was going forward, followed by the little shuffling crowd calling his simple message. "Yes," Simon said. "Gregorius is right. Perhaps if there are enough of us . . ." He was lost so deep in his reverie that he did not hear Galen leave.

"I can't believe it," Galen said to Valerian, back in the house. "It doesn't matter how many Christians there are, one thousand or ten thousand, they'll never kill that dragon. And if they can't kill Vermithrax, what hope?"

Valerian shook her head. "None," she said. "We can't kill it, the Christians can't kill it, and neither can you. That's why I've been thinking. Why should we put up with it anymore? What's the use in trying?"

"You mean. . . just... go away?"

She nodded. "Why not? Have you thought what life will be like anywhere close to Urland and the dragon? Have you thought what it would be like to live and work always frightened, always looking over your shoulder for either the dragon or Casiodorus's troops? To grow old in fear?" Valerian looked at her hands. "If we have a child, a girl, can you imagine the Lotteries?" She shuddered. "You haven't lived here. You have no idea of the shame and degradation . . ."

"Yes," he said, "I've seen it."

"Even if there is no child . . ."

"I know," he said. "It would be almost as bad." He fleetingly recalled his phantasies of only a few months before—how he would set bravely out for the west and for adventure—and he smiled bitterly. So, he had had his adventure and he would be going west, beaten, to escape. "Where shall we go?"

"Oh," she said, "
far
away! Even to the Western Isles."

Galen shrugged heavily. "All right. Now?"

"Yes."

They went to tell Simon, who was still where Galen had left him, his chin sunk morosely on his chest. "I shall be a very lonely old man," he said when Valerian had finished. "But of course it is what you should do." He straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. "I think I shall go out now, and when I return it were best that you were gone. That is the way, I think. So. Let us say good-bye." Weeping, he embraced his daughter. "I have nothing to give you," he said, "except what is yours already, and my love."

"Where are you going?" Valerian called after him.

"I am going to find Gregorius," he said, not turning back. Galen's ears may have tricked him in the emotion of the moment, but he thought that Simon laughed. "I am going to learn to pray."

Valerian wept after he had gone, and Galen held her.

Later, when they had packed, they left Simon's house and hiked up the road out of Swanscombe. Villagers were busy among the ruins; some had already started to rebuild. Most ignored them, either too busy or too shocked to be bothered with recriminations, but a few called blessings, and a few muttered curses. Wary dogs snarled and sniffed.

It was a cloudless, windless morning, a day brimming with sun. When they had passed the outskirts of the village and begun to climb the gentle sloping road to the west, their hands touched and held, although neither spoke; when they reached the top of the grade, they paused and turned back for a last look at Swanscombe and its valley. Even almost destroyed, the little village was still beautiful. The wheel of the gristmill, which had not been burnt, turned placidly, and in the nearby fields cattle browsed. Here and there through the lanes, horses trotted busily past, drawing carts and wagons. The business of building was proceeding, regardless of the dragon-threat. On some structures which had sprung back almost literally overnight, the thatch was already being replaced.

And, all around, the green and tranquil hills lay like a benediction.

Galen glanced only briefly at the village and then continued trudging down the road to the west. He was exhausted and beaten. He wanted only to be gone from Urland forever.

To their right lay the Blight. Neither spoke as they passed. High in its hill, the dragon's crevasse gaped like a socket emptied of its eye. Even from that distance, Galen could see the tiny stick-dot that was Jacopus. He shuddered, remembering the lick of drag-onfire on his legs, remembering the hypnotic dragon eyes into which he had stared, remembering his terror as the great jaws had opened to vent their flame . . .

"Don't look," Valerian said, holding her hand up like a blinker against his eye. "Don't remember. All of that's over, now."

But he could not help remembering long after they had passed the Blight and had begun to descend the serpentine path that led down into the valley of the River Varn. But then, as they descended, his spirits rose. They were, after all, going away from the Blight forever, and as Valerian pointed out, all of that horror was now behind them. Furthermore, it was a magnificent day, and the farther they went from the Blight the more birds sang in the surrounding trees, and the more abundant became the blossoms and the flowering bushes. Below, calm and silver in the sun, lay the Varn itself. The road led to the ford, the shallow gentle rapids that would be alive with fingerlings, leaping exuberantly in the sun and spray. Often during his summer stay, he had come down to fish for parent trout in the depths of nearby pools and he had spent many a lazy afternoon gazing across the ford, wondering what riches and adventures lay beyond in the far countries toward the sun. Now he was going himself.

He laughed. He had begun to feel in his stomach the kind of infantile exuberance he had not felt for years, not since the beginning of his study with Ulrich. He could recall that it was associated with animals, and with wishes that came true. He wished ... he wished that time were back again and that without charms, incantations, amulets, or potions, but merely on the strength of his own innocence, he could conjure once again the animals of his fantasies . . .

"What are you thinking?"

He laughed. "I was thinking about when I was small," he said. "Before I went to Cragganmore. Sometime I'll tell you what I could do then. Sometime . . ." He stopped. He stood still, peering intently into the valley. Something had moved there, something that did not belong. It was white. It had appeared briefly above the tops of the trees, disappeared, appeared again farther to the left, and again vanished. He touched a finger of his free hand to his hps, as if silence would let him see better. Again the object appeared and vanished, a white shadow and then suddenly it had veered into the pathway itself and approached until it was clear that it was a bird, a white bird strangely shaped, a white . . .

"Gringe!"

The raven wheeled and returned in the direction they were going, making the summoning motions with its wingtips that Galen had come to know well.

"He wants us to follow. Come on!" He broke into a trot, pulling Valerian behind.

Gringe stayed just ahead, moving so slowly that he was scarcely airborne, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to ensure that they were coming. In a few minutes they had reached the flat portion of the old streambed and then, after passing through a short tunnel amidst the oaks and alders on the riverbank, they emerged at the edge of a gentle slope that led down to the river and to Heronsford. For a moment they were dazzled by the reflections of the sim on the bubbling water and on the glistening expanse of stones and pebbles; and then, when their eyes had adjusted to the new light, Valerian gasped in dismay and Galen's heart sank.

Between them and the river stretched a somber band of horsemen. In the center, his kingly garments resplendent in the sun, was Casiodorus.

For a moment no one moved. All were frozen in a stark tableau. Even Gringe seemed to hang midway between the groups. Then, as if ordering the play to begin, the raven emitted a single, raucous squawk. Casiodorus's horse moved forward.

In the seconds before the cavalry charged to hack them mercilessly into the earth, Galen remembered all that he had done since his arrival, all the disaster that he had brought to Urland, for which his death and Valerian's would now be retribution. He remembered Tyrian's warning after the death of Hodge, and the feel of Jerbul's dagger in the nape of his neck. He remembered his naive presumption in calling down the landslide that had irked the dragon and stung it to fearful vengeance. He recalled the devastation of Swanscombe, and he imagined that horror repeated again and again through all of Urland. He remembered the feel of Sicarius leaping forward of its own volition and burying itself in the chest of Tyrian, and he remembered the warrior's look of astonishment. He remembered poor, flailing Jacopus on his futile climb to the dragon's lair. He remembered Elspeth's mutilated body, and the other bodies he had seen in the past days, on the roads, in the fields, amidst the ruins of dwellings—men, women, and children. And, remembering all of this, he was overcome by such a profound sorrow and guilt and humility that he actually sank to his knees.
Have I done this? All of this? What have I done?

Casiodorus's horse moved forward. In horrible slow motion, Casiodorus's sword arm swept out and back, dropping toward the hilt of his weapon, and Galen knew that the charge would come now, the horses clattering across the gravel.

But the charge did not come. Casiodorus did not draw his sword, nor did his men follow him. His hand swept back in a holding gesture, and his horse came forward alone, very slowly, until it had covered about half the distance to where Galen and Valerian waited in the shadow of the forest. Then the king dismounted, dropped his reins, and approached on foot. Galen stood up.

"I have something of yours," Casiodorus said. His face was awful. He was a man who had passed beyond grief, beyond fear, beyond hope. His blanched skin was drawn tight over the bones. His voice was sepulchral, and his eyes, when they looked at Galen, did not seem to see him or, rather, saw him as an insignificant detail in eternity and space. Galen's stomach convulsed; he had seen that look once before, in the eye of the dragon. "Do not be alarmed," the king went on. "We shall not harm you nor prevent your leaving Urland, if you choose to go. But before you decide, there is something you should have." With his gloved hand he reached into a leather wallet and placed the amulet in Galen's extended palm. "It has brought me nothing but grief," Casiodorus said. "Do you see? Even now . . ." and he opened his hand so that Galen could see the holes burned through the fingertips and the palm of his glove. "Perhaps, had I not taken it from you, my daughter would be alive. Perhaps the dragon would not have come forth again. Since I took it, I have had no rest. I have had pain. I have had visions beyond anything I can describe to you. I have seen my land ravaged and my daughter swallowed by the earth. I wish this talisman had never befallen me."

"It ... it is an ancient stone, Your Majesty," Galen said weakly. "I do not understand its power."