Dragon Seeker (4 page)

“We’ve hardly stopped since the tomb was discovered,” Colonel Jamieson admitted, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve no idea the amount of interest there’s been. I think every antiquarian society in the world’s accessed the website we’ve set up …”

“It’s good of you to see me, in that case,” Sir James smiled. “Sheer curiosity on my part, I confess …”

The colonel grinned understandingly. “We’ve had experts in to examine it,” he said, “and they reckon it was made around the time of King Arthur.” Rising from his desk, he ushered Sir James towards a glass-topped table that held the sword and the horn. “From around 500
AD
, I’m told.” He unlocked the lid and lifted the sword reverently from its bed of dark blue velvet. Holding it across the palms of both hands, he showed it to Sir James. “Here, have a closer look.”

Sir James took the sword carefully, exclaiming at its weight as he examined it closely. It had, indeed, been beautifully made; the blade gleamed and the fire-breathing dragon that curled round the hilt had certainly been delicately carved. Nevertheless, he felt more than slightly disappointed. Knowing that it was a magic sword, he’d have expected some reaction from his firestone — but there was nothing; no wave of excitement, no buzz of
recognition
. He frowned slightly. Maybe, he thought, it was because of the hex that Lord Alarid had put around it.

Colonel Jamieson’s voice broke into his thoughts. “We’re thinking of displaying it in the castle, along with the horn, the flag and the suit of armour,” he said, replacing the sword on its
bed of velvet. “It’s a magnificent find!”

“Yes, one way or another, the earthquake’s caused quite a stir,” Sir James observed.

“In more ways than one,” the colonel agreed, “and quite frankly we’re planning to make the most of the King Arthur theme this year in the hope that it’ll draw lots of visitors to the castle. We’re expecting a flood of tourists.”

“What about the tomb, itself?” Sir James queried.

“We’ll probably open it up eventually,” the colonel nodded, his face brightening, “So far the engineers’ reports have been
positive
. Most of the tunnels under the castle are notoriously
unstable
but this one, remember, was cut out of the rock. If we could have it cleared by the start of the Festival, it would really draw the crowds. I mean, going along a secret passage to a buried tomb …”

“Quite something,” agreed Sir James.

“Quite a money-spinner,” corrected the colonel. “And I’m not being mercenary,” he added, seeing Sir James’s look of
surprise
. “You’ve no idea how much it costs to maintain the castle buildings at the best of times. Astronomical, I assure you. The earthquake gave the buildings a good shaking — you’ll have heard that we’ve had to cancel the Tattoo because of it. The esplanade is badly cracked.”

“What about a different venue?” suggested Sir James . “There’s always the Meadows.”

“We thought of that, but a circus is already booked to appear there. A pity, as the Meadows would be ideal; plenty of room for the crowds,” the colonel remarked absent-mindedly. Then he stiffened and whirled round. “I’ve got it!” he said excitedly. “James, I’ve just had a brainwave! It all ties in.”

“Ties in with what?” Sir James looked blank.

“With the sword and the horn … and the knight! We’ll have a tournament … a real mediaeval tournament with people in
costume!”

“A tournament?” Sir James sounded wary.

“We could have it on Arthur’s Seat with Holyrood Palace in the background. You know the sort of thing! Knights in shining armour, with lances, knocking one another off horses …”

Sir James’s eyes sharpened at the mention of Arthur’s Seat. He wasn’t sure what the MacArthur would say to that but as there was no stopping the Colonel, he nodded his head. “It’s a good idea and original as well. We’ve never had anything like that at the Festival before.”

“Mmmm,” the colonel said, his mind already working out the details, “it’s a pity you have to go back to the States or I’d have asked you to do the commentary. You couldn’t put it off, could you?”

Sir James shook his head. “I’ve a business deal to wrap up,” he said ruefully, “otherwise I’d have been delighted to take it on. It’s a fabulous idea. And you’re right! There’s a whole host of things you could tie in with it!”

Colonel Jamieson nodded, enthusiasm flooding through him once more as the scale of the idea hit him. “True,” he agreed, as he started to pace the room excitedly. “We could have
mediaeval
banquets with venison and hog roasts. People dressed in costume; a funfair; pedlars selling scarves and trinkets;
fortune-tellers
; jesters in costume — it would be fantastic! And actually, if we moved the circus to Arthur’s Seat we could still go ahead with the Tattoo in the Meadows. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea,” approved Sir James, warming to the theme, “and you’re right, it links everything together; the knight and the sword.”

“We’ve had masses of publicity about the knight and the tomb already,” the colonel said excitedly, “but this will really draw the crowds. A tournament! I can’t think
why
I didn’t think of it before!”

“Read the article again,” demanded the sword.

Count Vassili looked up at Dragonslayer with raised
eyebrows
and, taking a deep breath, glanced across at Lord Jezail to see if he agreed.

He’d been totally flabbergasted when his master had appeared with the sword in his hand and utterly furious that he hadn’t discussed it with him beforehand. This, more than anything else, made him uneasy for, in the past, Lord Jezail had always shared his plans and ideas with him. This time there had been nothing and he wasn’t at all happy at the thought of losing his confidence. He shuddered slightly. If Lord Jezail could go ahead and do this without breathing a word to him, what would he get up to next?

All in all, he sighed, the whole trip was proving more than a bit of a nightmare. The easiest part had been setting up their
headquarters
, here, in the ruins of an isolated old Border keep, a few miles from the MacLean’s house on the outskirts of Coldstream.

It hadn’t taken long to make it comfortable; a few hexes here and there had transformed the barren ruin into a very
comfortable
residence. Tapestries covered the bare walls, carpets covered the stone flagstones that paved the floor, comfortable armchairs were dotted here and there and the huge open
chimney
now housed a roaring fire that kept the chill at bay.

The sword, at its own request, had been fixed to the wall above the fireplace and from there it issued its commands. Vassili sighed but said nothing, knowing that his master, too, had his doubts about Dragonslayer. One minute he was
triumphant
at having found it and the next, seething with temper at its demands. Always eccentric, he was proving more difficult to manage by the day.

Jezail frowned at the sword’s words and looked across at the count. “Oh, for goodness sake, do what it says and read it again,” he snapped, his voice sharp with ill-concealed anger.

Picking up the
Scotsman
, the count folded it to the page where the tournament was advertised in bold letters. He was wishing now that he’d never mentioned it, but the sword had been in such a bad temper over the past few days that he’d thought the news of the proposed tournament might cheer it up. He’d also read the bit about Sir Pendar’s tomb; the excitement it had caused and how visitors were pouring into Edinburgh from all over the world to see it.

As it happened, the sword hadn’t been really all that impressed. It knew, of course, that the sword the soldiers had found in Sir Pendar’s tomb was the replica it, itself, had conjured up and shrugged, totally uninterested to hear that it was now on display in Edinburgh Castle. Vassili’s mention of the tournament, however, was something else! Memories of days long ago flooded through its mind: Old England, where knights lived in castles and troubadours and jesters entertained at court; lovely ladies in beautiful dresses; the thud of horses’ hooves on the turf; the clash of swords and the shine of armour. Those were the days!

“By the way,” Lord Jezail said, stretching his legs lazily in front of the fire, “where is this tournament going to be held?”

It was then that Count Vassili uttered what proved to be fateful words. “On the slopes of Arthur’s Seat!” he said casually.

The sword said nothing for quite a few seconds and then glowed an exquisite shade of gold as the full meaning of his words hit home. The tournament, it thought, revelling in a mixture
of deep contentment, flaring excitement and mouth-watering anticipation, was going to be held on the slopes of
Arthur’s Seat!

How long, how very long, had it waited, cooped up in that wretched tomb, for just such an opportunity as this? How often had it dreamt of finishing off that pathetic excuse for a dragon? And on Arthur’s Seat, itself! He would be close, so close to the dragon! Close enough to draw it out of its lair and then … and then …

“We will take part in the tournament,” the sword said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Lord Jezail and Vassili exchanged glances.

“You know Sir Pendar’s story!” the sword almost snapped. “The dragon was mine and I was deprived of my prey! But this time,” it gloated, “there will be no mistake. I will draw it out of Arthur’s Seat and it will face me again; for you, Lord Jezail, will be holding me in your hand and I will make sure that I pierce its heart! Besides which,” it added in a more business-like tone, “it will be good practice for you when we get to your Valley of the Dragons!”

Lord Jezail’s face changed at the sword’s words. Frail as he was, he leapt to his feet, quite consumed with excitement. “Wonderful,” he agreed, his face shining. “A sort of practice run! Just the thing!”

Vassili blinked and swallowed hard. “Master,” he implored, trying to keep his voice steady, “please don’t be too hasty. You know perfectly well that the Lords of the North will never let anything happen to Arthur and … and well, you haven’t been in the best of health lately, have you? I mean, riding in a
tournament
…” His voice petered out as the enormity of the situation hit him.

“The high and mighty Lords of the North know nothing of what happened in Edinburgh,” Lord Jezail replied
dismissively,
 
resuming his seat. “
They
think that Dragonslayer is in Edinburgh Castle and, by this time, I bet they’ll have put a hex on it that would stop an army in its tracks! No, Vassili, the sword is right.” He rubbed his hands together and a triumphant smile curled his lips. “It’ll be fantastic! We’ll certainly give the newspapers something to write about!” He bowed low to the sword. “Between us, we’ll kill a real dragon!”

“And Clara?” the count asked, hoping to divert his thoughts from the tournament. “What about her? Aren’t you going to kidnap her anymore?”

“Yes, yes, of course we are. The tournament isn’t taking place for a while yet. We’ve plenty of time to kidnap Clara. In fact,” and here he looked up at the sword, “we were talking about it last night and Dragonslayer has come up with a wonderful idea.”

Count Vassili’s heart sank. “What, exactly, did Dragonslayer ‘come up with’, Milord?”

“Well, it’s a long time since it’s been able to use its magic and it thought of conjuring up a Gra’el!” he finished excitedly.

“A Gra’el?” Astonishment mingled with a look of extreme disgust flashed across Vassili’s face; for Gra’els were the vultures of the world of magic. Scavenging on the flesh of dead dragons, they were huge, black, ugly birds with long necks and cruel, curved beaks. “You can’t possibly use a Gra’el to kidnap Clara,” he said forcefully. “Not a Gra’el! There are lots of other ways! I mean …”

Lord Jezail leapt to his feet, looking furious. “You forget yourself, Count Vassili,” he snarled angrily. “Kindly leave us! Now! At once!”

The sword hissed softly with pleasure. It knew that the count hated it and smiled inwardly. How wonderful it would be to call up a Gra’el again; for one of its greatest pleasures had been the sight of the dreadful bird, beak agape, swooping hungrily over
the carcasses of dead dragons.

The count, rather white about the lips, bowed low to the magician and to the sword and left the room, his mind in
turmoil
as his growing suspicions suddenly became certainties. It was the sword’s doing! Lord Jezail had many faults but he knew his master of old. In days gone by, he’d never have dreamt of calling up such a monster to catch a child!

The maid saw him as he passed the kitchen door. “Count Vassili,” she asked nervously seeing the grim set of his lips, “is the master alright? I mean, he hasn’t been ill again, has he?”

“Lord Jezail’s fine,” he answered sourly. “I’m just a bit fed up at the moment.”

“The sword?” she queried.

He nodded grimly. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into all this, Maria,” he said wearily. “Things aren’t turning out quite the way I expected!”

“Isn’t the girl coming?” she asked in surprise.

“She’ll be here soon, by the sound of things,” he replied, forcing a smile. “Clara’s a nice girl,” he added. “If … if, by any chance, I’m not around, you must look after her well. Do you understand?”

“But … why wouldn’t you be here?” she looked alarmed. “I don’t want to be alone with the master,” she whispered. “He … frightens me with his bad temper.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Maria,” he assured her. “I just wanted you to know in case … well, in case anything happens.”

She smiled and nodded, only partly reassured. It had seemed like a great adventure when the count had asked her to travel with them to Scotland to look after a young girl. Now she was starting to wish she hadn’t agreed to it. Count Vassili, too, was nervous and that worried her more than anything.

The country road that ran between stretches of woodland and fields of ripening wheat was deserted apart from two children in riding kit who walked along casually, enjoying the summer sun. Wild flowers waved in a gentle breeze and the hedgerows on either side were covered in a sprinkling of wild roses.

Neil stopped suddenly in the shade of some trees and glanced around. Ever since they'd left Blackriggs Farm where they'd been riding, he and Clara had been deep in
conversation
, talking non-stop about the sword, the tournament and the MacArthurs. Now, for some reason, he felt uneasy.

“What's the matter, Neil?” Clara asked idly, following his glance back along the long stretch of winding road that dipped and curved between woods and fields. It would have been hard to imagine a more peaceful scene. The cornfields, swaying gently in the breeze, seemed to stretch for miles under a sky of azure blue.

“Something funny's going on,” Neil said, shaking his head. “Don't you feel it?”

Clara looked suddenly anxious. “Now that you mention it,” she whispered, “yes, I do!”

“Magic …” Neil said, his voice trailing off.

“Look, Neil! Over there! Do you think it could be them?” Clara said uneasily as a movement in the sky caught her eye.

Neil screwed up his eyes against the sun. “Earth witches — and a full coven, at that,” he remarked, counting six witches on either side of their leader.

“You're right,” Clara said, counting them. “Thirteen! That's a bit unusual, isn't it?”

Neil nodded, for the earth witches, whose underground castle was nearby, usually travelled across the countryside in twos or threes. He could tell they were earth witches. They were all dressed in black; black dresses, black cloaks and black squishy hats that ended in drooping points. They were, actually, the least attractive of all the witches, their faces bold, strong and cruel. Even the wind witches were better looking, their features elegant and refined and their dresses a shimmering rustle of grey silk. Of them all, however, the snow witches were the most beautiful. White skinned and raven-haired, their dresses were gorgeous robes of chiffon and ivory brocade.

Both children stopped to look at the earth witches as they soared over the fields towards them in a perfect V formation. Well, almost, Clara grinned slightly, for the last witch, a lot smaller than the others, was way out of line.

At the last moment, they curved downwards and, wheeling with mathematical precision, landed gently in the road beside them — apart, that is, from the littlest witch at the end who, fortunately unseen by the others, lost her balance and fell into the ditch.

Clara looked at them nervously for of all the magic people they knew, the witches were in a class of their own and weren't their friends. Maritza, Queen of the Earth Witches, dismounted from her broomstick and stared at them through eyes as black as night. Clara's heart sank and she moved closer to Neil for she knew that the queen hadn't forgiven her for stealing the
Book of Spells
from her castle under Witches' Wood.

Maritza, however, her eyes darting here and there, seemed to have other things on her mind for she, too, was looking round
uneasily, as were the rest of the coven. Clara relaxed thankfully. Maybe they might be able to explain what was going on, for it was pretty obvious that something strange was happening.

“Bow!” breathed Neil into her ear. As she and Neil bent low to the Queen of the Earth Witches, Maritza's face relaxed slightly. At least they knew how to behave, she thought
approvingly
, and inclined her head in acknowledgement.

Neil had no idea how to address a witch but decided that a bit of flattery wouldn't come amiss. Both he and Clara knew that the Lords of the North had forbidden the witches to harm them but, nevertheless, he could well imagine their fury when they had discovered that their precious
Book of Spells
had disappeared. Better, he thought, to keep relations on a good footing. “What's going on, Milady?” he asked, gesturing worriedly.

Maritza scanned the land and the sky and shook her head slowly. “There's definitely magic around somewhere,” she said. “I can feel it. Strong magic!” she said, suddenly alarmed. Her witches felt it, too, and lifted lightly off the ground, ready to take off.

“Come,” she said harshly, “you'd better come with us. Harriet, take the boy and Clara, you come with me. Quickly, sit on my broomstick and I will take you to safety!”

The thought of flying on a broomstick with the Queen of the Witches was too much for Clara. She took a frightened step backwards, her eyes suspicious. Was all this a trap set up by the witches to capture her? “No,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry, “no, no, I won't.”

“Stupid girl,” Maritza said coldly. “I mean you no harm!”

Clara looked at her doubtfully and it was as she hesitated that an enormous shadow fell over them.

Neil glanced upwards, his eyes widening in horror as he saw
a monstrous black bird swooping down on them from the sky, its talons outstretched to grab Clara. Instinctively, he pushed her violently towards Maritza who, seeing the bird and aware of the danger, unceremoniously hauled an astonished Clara across the front of her broomstick and, kicking her heels down hard on the road, took off in a steep, screaming curve into the sky. Harriet wasn't far behind her either! She grabbed Neil with strong arms, lifted him off the road and didn't hang around. Zig-zagging frantically, she followed her mistress into the air with the rest of the coven scattering wildly as the bird, deprived of its prey, let out a venomous squawk of anger and, great wings flapping, soared after them.

It was then that the little witch at the back of the coven redeemed herself in the eyes of her mistress. She swung the handle of her broomstick determinedly upwards and, hanging on grimly, shot up vertically like a bullet out of a gun and hit the monstrous bird from below with such force that it gave a fearsome, agonized cry, doubled up in agony and, forgetting in the heat of the moment that while flying it is advisable to keep ones wings flapping, dropped like a stone. Neil grinned as he watched it flopping around frantically as it tried to stay airborne. The witches, however, didn't stop to gloat. Now in tight formation, they sped off, glad to have a head start on the awful creature.

What kind of a bird was it, Neil wondered, peering back over the witch's shoulder. It was certainly nothing like
anything
he'd ever seen before and he certainly hadn't heard it as it swooped down. It had been its shadow that had given it away. Thank goodness, he thought, that the witches had been around; for the more he looked at it, the more frightened he became. Its long neck curved, snake-like, to end in a head dominated by a huge, curved beak, its black wings flapped silently and its
massive
feathers were like whole handfuls of …
furry caterpillars
, he thought; soft, black, ugly, squidgy caterpillars.

The bird, however, hadn't given up. Despite looking
decidedly
the worse for wear, its great wings, nevertheless, carried it swiftly through the air and again it tried to dive-bomb them. Maritza and Harriet swerved crazily here and there over the sky while Clara shut her eyes, held on tightly to the broomstick and, like Neil, tried not to feel sick.

The rest of the witches, abandoning their tight formation, now did their best to spoil the bird's aim, flying in front of it, under it, over it and generally doing anything in their power to slow it down. The countryside below was familiar to them and they had quickly gathered that Maritza was leading them to the safety of the children's house. It was still some way away, however, and she was going to need as much time as she could get if she was going to get there safely. Every second counted!

Kitor and Cassia, two black crows, who had been waiting in the MacLean's garden for Neil and Clara to return from their riding lesson, almost fell out of their tree when they saw the witches and the huge black bird flying towards them. Kitor squawked in horror, hardly able to believe his eyes. Witches, in all-out battle with a huge black bird! It was the size of a small aeroplane, for goodness sake!

Unlike Neil, Clara and the witches, the crows knew exactly what the bird was. Not that they'd ever seen one before but their parents had heard tell of it in ages past and told them enough about it to freeze their blood. “A Gra'el,” Kitor said, almost
falling
out of the tree.

The witches now changed their tactics and, as they neared the house, flew as close to the ground as they dared. Kitor
nodded
approvingly as this made it harder for the bird to swoop on them. It was only as the battle drew nearer that the crows
looked at one another in amazement and squawked in disbelief. Neil and Clara! Riding with the witches on their broomsticks!

This rather threw Kitor. Indeed, for a few seconds he didn't quite know what to think for he had helped Neil and Clara steal the witches'
Book of Spells
and knew only too well that the two children weren't exactly flavour of the month with Maritza. Nevertheless, she and her witches were certainly trying to save them from the clutches of the ghastly bird. It was still on the attack and Kitor saw problems looming. Once the witches landed, they'd be even more vulnerable. The bird would make mincemeat of them!

Quickly, he flew to the house and, wings flapping madly, pressed his heavy beak hard and persistently against the bell while Cassia squawked loudly to attract Mrs MacLean's
attention
.

Wiping her hands on a tea towel as she came running from the kitchen, Mrs MacLean wondered what was going on and threw the door wide open.

“Witches,” Kitor said urgently, as he and Cassia swooped in and perched on her shoulder in a flurry of feathers. “They're coming here! They've got Neil and Clara!”

Mrs MacLean's eyes widened as she looked out of the door and saw a whole horde of witches speeding towards her across the lawn with a great, black bird swooping in behind them. Stepping hurriedly backwards, she flattened herself against the wall as Maritza shot through the front door at high speed with the rest of her coven behind her.

“Shut the door, Mum,” Neil screamed as he flew past. Mrs MacLean leapt forward, watching with a pounding heart as the last witch, trailing perilously behind the others, zig-zagged in with inches to spare as the bird tried to catch her in its claws. It was a close-run thing. Cloak flapping and hat askew, the little
witch more or less skated across the black and white tiles of the floor, her broomstick a nervous wreck.

The minute she streaked through, Mrs MacLean slammed the heavy door shut. She made it in the nick of time, but only just, and they drew back in horror as the full weight of the bird hit the door with a ghastly, resounding thud. Deprived of its prey, they could hear it clawing at the wood with screams of rage.

Neil ran to the little window in the cloakroom and watched as the bird, realizing that it couldn't get into the house, shimmered suddenly and gradually faded to nothing.

“What,” Mrs MacLean said weakly, as the dreadful noise stopped, “what on earth was
that?”