Dragonslayer: A Novel (30 page)

"But it does not assail
you.
See, how tranquilly it lies in your hand."

"I. . . I cannot explain that, Your Majesty."

"I can. You are innocent. You have not abused its power, or any power. You are a courier, although what you carry and to what end, I cannot tell. Do with it what you will; and go in peace." So saying, the king raised his right hand in an absent-minded benediction, his thoughts already elsewhere. When he mounted, he gave the animal its head, and it turned back down the riverbed toward its stable in distant Morgenthorme. Its footfalls made small splashes at the edge of the stream. The other riders wheeled their mounts and fell in behind; two of them trotted a little ahead up the beach, between the king and the shadowy forest.

When they had gone, Valerian breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Come on," she said. "Let's get across this river before he changes his mind."

"There's something . . ."

"Come
on,
Galen."

"No, wait. Wait. There's something . . . something I have to do." Galen had actually started forward with her, even before the last horseman was out of sight around the bend in the river, but he was stopped, puzzled by something he had seen in the rapids. A heron. The presence of the bird was not unusual; what
was
unusual was that it stood in the exact center of the rapids, quite undisturbed by the horsemen, and it was looking directly at Galen. It balanced on one foot in the predatory position, the other tucked into the gray feathers of its body. Its elongated neck was only slightly thicker than the leg. Its swordlike bill was a tiny triangle underneath keen, unblinking eyes. Its splendid wings, broader than Galen was tall, were fully outstretched. Nor was it only the heron's unusual stance, like a warning sentinel, that had arrested Galen; he
knew
this heron. "Wait. . ." he said again, sitting down slowly. Gringe had also perched and was waiting in a tree at the water's edge behind the heron and directly above it.

The amulet hummed in his cupped palms. He drew his feet up so that his hands rested on his ankles, and then he looked at the stone, looked
into
the stone, for his gaze was immediately drawn deeper than it had ever been drawn into Ulrich's conjuring bowl. In the center of the stone lay an immense cavern filled with an eerie, shimmering luminosity. There was a man kneeling there, clad in skins, and the man was watching something that amazed and frightened him, although Galen could not see what it was.

There was fire and water. Galen had never seen such sinuous fire, fire that flowed from in front of the figure and gradually encircled him until Galen wanted to cry a warning.
Get out! Get out! It's a lake of fire! Run!
But then, just as the first wavelets of flame touched it, the figure changed and turned. His skin garments became flowing robes, the protruding jaw became a white beard, the horrified stare became a smile of triumph, and the supplicating arms rose in greeting.

"Ulrich!"

Ulrich it was, rising out of the lake of fire in a vision so real that Galen actually thought for a moment that the old sorcerer was alive again.

"But. . ." said Galen drawing back.

The vision vanished.

"But . . ." The birds remained; and above the heron, above Gringe, a third had appeared, a falcon, turning in small spirals. The three formed a perfectly straight line above the ford.

"Ulrichyou. . ."

When all things converge, you will know beyond doubt what must be done . . .

Galen gaped at his knapsack, rummaged in it for the pouch of ashes, and leapt to his feet. "He's here!" he shouted. "He's pulled a trick! We're going back!"

Valerian shrank away from him, shaking her head. "No," she said. "No."

"Listen to me! Please listen to me! I know what has to be done. I'm the only one who can do it. I
must
do it."

"Why? Why must you?"

"Because I'm a . . . For the Craft. For Ulrich."

"For
Ulrich?
For a dead man?" She was shaking her head incredulously.

"But he's
not
dead! That's the point. At least, not really dead."

"Galen, I
saw
him die. Tyrian stabbed him. He's dead. He's burnt."

"Yes, but he's a sorcerer, don't you see? That's what we've forgotten all this time. It's a matter of faith. Of seeing."

"I know what I saw—a sword going in one side of a man and out the other. Are you going to tell me that that man is alive?"

"You'll see," Galen laughed strangely. "You'll see."

"You sounded like that crazy old man just then."

"Hodge! Yes! Hodge knew! That's why he gave me . . . Oh, I should have
seen
it. I should have seen it!" He seized her elbow. "Come on. We've got to hurry."

She reached to touch his face. She was crying. "Please," she said. "We can still go away from all this. Just you and I."

He shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "Come on."

At the same moment they both realized that while they had been talking the air had grown cooler, the sun less bright. The edge of a dark full moon had begun to blot out the sun, and an unnatural twilight descended upon the hills and downs. The birds cried out in soft alarm.

"Do you know what that means?" she asked, taking his hand and turning back with him toward the Blight.

"What?"

She replied matter-of-factly, drying her eyes on the back of her free hand. "It means," she said, "that someone is going to die."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Lake
of Fire

The birds followed them
. The heron rose with a sweep of its great wings and passed low above them, its head extended, its gaze fixed on a distance they could not see. For a time the falcon also circled overhead, its shrill and lonely calls falling like splinters of a shattered benediction. Then both passed on, and only Gringe was left to keep them company; Gringe, drifting softly amidst the trees, chuckling irritably while he waited for them to catch up.

The eclipse deepened.

They were breathless when they reached the crest of the hill, but they began to run down the eastern slope. The Blight became visible, a dark presence, behind the bushes on their left, and very soon they were in it. They left the tree line and began to climb the dark slope toward the dragon's lair. The last of the pale sunlight transformed the hillside. Always before Galen had viewed the Blight on overcast days, when the slopes had been dull with diffused light. But now, the weird sun threw individual boulders and crevasses into relief and brought their colors to baleful life. They were dark—browns and grays—and nothing lived among them except the occasional furtive lizard, flicking his tongue at the approach of the humans and vanishing instantly. The rock itself was earthen brown on the flanks, covered with a velvet coating which could be mistaken for fine moss, except that it was dragon-slime, laid down over the years, gleaming now like pale film. Galen shuddered to feel his shoes slip on it. Still gripping Valerian's hand, he pulled her stumbling along over the uneven surface. Alternatively, he was convulsed with horror at the prospects of what lay ahead and exhilarated at what he knew might be, if only. . . .

The mouth of the cave gaped above. They clambered up the last incline, slipping in scree that rolled into little avalanches beneath their feet, grimacing as they passed the charred and flyblown thing that had been Jacopus. Then they were on the ledge, peering into the gloom of the lair. This time Galen wasted no time calling the name of Vermithrax. The last thing he wanted was to let the dragon know of his approach if it were lurking below, and he raised a warning finger to his lips as Valerian started to speak to him. Quickly he dropped his pack, opened it, and pulled out the pouch of ashes. Then he went forward. He did not pause, not even long enough for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, but hurried down into the foulness of the passage.

In fact, there was no need for silence and caution. Vermithrax was not below. Restive, nagged by its neck wound, lured out by the false twilight, the dragon had taken flight over the scorched land. It had met no opposition, encountered no challenge; yet it felt a deep unease, a threat that caused it to sweep in a broad circle as far west as Heronsford and to pass searching three times directly over the Blight itself, before lifting away toward the southeast. The first of these circling passes occurred moments after Galen and Valerian had entered the cave; indeed, had Galen hesitated instead of hurrying Valerian inside, the thin shadow of the dragon would have drifted over them. Even so, they were close enough for the dragon to sense them, to veer slightly, to resolve to make only a very short reconnaissance . . .

Inside, his eyes still unaccustomed to the gloom, Galen almost stumbled upon the bodies of Elspeth and the dragonets. He had forgotten to warn Valerian about this horror, and she barely suppressed a scream when she saw it. Fists pressed into her mouth, wide-eyed, she shrank away.

"Sorry," Galen whispered. "Yes, it's Elspeth. I meant to tell you." The walls amplified his whisper.
I meant to tell you.
"Come around this way." He beckoned to her and then hurried on, down toward the Lake of Fire. By the time Valerian had recovered and edged past the corpses, he was out of sight.

"Galen! . . . Galen!" But there came no answer except the echoes,
Galen .
. . from both the passageways that forked, right and left, ahead of her. The walls glimmered. Something soft and wet scurried across her instep. She thought, unable to rid her nostrils of the stench of the place, that she would be violently sick. She had determined to go with Galen wherever this strange, last compulsion might lead him, into the very teeth of Vermithrax if necessary; but now her resolution faltered. She saw those teeth moving in the shadows of the walls. Ahead, around the corner, she heard the sibilance of leather wings. When something else covered her foot, something heavy and cold and pulsing, she cried out and fled back toward light and air, toward the reassuring green of nature that lay beyond the Blight. She arrived on the ledge sobbing with relief.

The eclipse was almost total.

Above the dim land, three miles to the south, Vermithrax turned toward home.

Deep inside the tunnel, Galen was oblivious to her absence. The pouch of ashes he bore like a grail in both hands at chest level. Down he went, entranced, past the niche from which he had lunged with Simon's lance, past damp walls and the alert eyes of newts and salamanders, down, down, toward the Lake of Fire where pale shapes moved beneath the surface. Soon, reflected flames summoned him. He rounded a corner, then another, and there it lay. Groups of flames danced on the surface, now blending, now separating. Under the vaults, other arms of the lake stretched away to unknown and sepulchral regions. Ahead, the stepping stones beckoned him. Under and around them moved abysmal shapes. To do what must be done, he would have to walk out on those stones and be as vulnerable again as he was when Vermithrax had come before. Where
was
Vermithrax? Galen peered into the gloom, squinting against the vapors rising from the lake and, although he saw nothing of the dragon, he could not rid himself of the feeling that he was being watched. The skin moved on the insides of his thighs and on his buttocks; but there was no turning back. He stepped from the muck at the water's edge—his shoe making a small reluctant sound as he did so—to the first of the stones.

Something trembled; he could not be sure whether it was merely the flat stone, or whether it was the ground beneath the stone, but something had definitely moved. He took the step to the next stone, and then to the next. Still no Vermithrax. He had, he thought, been standing at exactly this spot when the dragon had risen before. Could it be . . . was it possible that the lance had in fact struck deep, inflicting a mortal wound? Could it be that Vermithrax was sinking into death even now, curled in some remote crevasse? As if in mockery of this thought, the ground trembled again, and concentric ripples shimmered on the lake's surface.

Hands shuddering, forcing himself to move deliberately, Galen untied the thongs on the packet containing Ulrich's ashes. He extended the pouch arm's length, holding it while he searched for the precise Latin, and then flung the contents in a wide arc.
"Nunc magister reverti iubeo! Ulrich appropinqua!"

The ashes drifted in a falling band, reflecting the flames; as the first of them touched the water, the earth quivered again, nor did the trembhng cease till they had dispersed amidst the circles of flame.

Holding his breath, Galen had watched their descent. But aside from the tremor and the fact that the shapes in the dark water suddenly congregated and then, just as suddenly, sank from sight, there was no change. For a moment his arm remained extended; then it fell to his side. Nothing. So he had been wrong again, and the vision that he had had was simply a whim, the delusion of a romantic child.

Then suddenly a small whirlwind appeared on the surface. Drawing all adjacent flame into its vortex, it spun ever faster, soon rising into an undulating pillar four feet high. Then, broadening funnellike, the top grew denser and more stable, slowing while the bottom of the little tornado gathered speed. Even as Galen watched in astonishment and growing excitement, the thickening at the top took on a distinct shape. A
man
was reclining on this spiraling column of fire, reposing in complete tranquility even as he had on his funeral pyre.