Dragonslayer: A Novel (16 page)

Galen nodded slowly, openmouthed.

He had in fact done more than he intended, for the impact of that gigantic rock loosened others on the hillside above, and they in turn released others; before the dust of the first fall had settled, another had begun—more terrifying because it swiftly became an avalanche.

"Galen! Run! Come
on!"

And run they did, in giant staggering, downhill strides until they reached the footpath along the valley floor. Even there they were pelted by ricocheting shards and pebbles. They had thrown themselves flat behind the boulders at the bottom, and they stayed there, coughing and choking, until the dust had settled. They were still there, still trembling with their arms around each other, when the Urlanders found them.

"You
do
have it," Greil said reverently. "You
do
have the Talent."

"Dangerous," said a reedy voice not far away. "Power like that! Could kill people!"

"Xenophobius, you fool," said Malkin, shaking violently, "can't you see what he's done? He's sealed the cave! He's killed Vermithrax!" And gaping in mingled awe and fear, he edged forward to touch the sleeve of Galen's cloak.

Xenophobius grunted. "Maybe," he said, but he too was shaken by the violence of the event. The others ignored him. The realization that the cave was shut fast and the dragon was imprisoned slowly dawned on them.

They crowded about Galen but, except for Malkin, no one touched him. A magical circle formed around him, a space that not even Valerian penetrated, and in the center of it Galen was led, triumphant and isolated, to Swanscombe.

Comfortably full of otter, the falcon had observed the whole incident from its ledge, and although it had recognized Galen and Gringe, it had only the most fleeting desire to glide down and greet them. Already other, primal urges had begun to assert themselves. Already it had begun to yearn for the freedom of the moors, and for another to share that freedom. Already, also, it had begun to sense that it would be best to be away from this place, and very soon. Replete though it was, the gyrfalcon longed to glide off the ledge, to rise inconspicuously on the first updraft, and to drift to the northwest, far away from Swanscombe and the Blight. It was restive to be gone; yet it stayed. It stayed, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. There was something yet to be done. . . .

Almost exactly midway between the south-flowing Ur and the north-flowing Varn, Swanscombe village nestled on the south bank of Urland's smallest river. It had been built at a little rapid, to take advantage of the waterpower there, and a waterwheel worked a primitive mill that ground the village wheat to flour. Like that of all other buildings in Swanscombe, the roof of the mill was thatched, and its walls were mud and wattle. The village was not large, perhaps thirty-five residences in all, scattered around a central Granary, but the adjoining fields and gardens were generously spaced and, with various outbuildings, Swanscombe covered perhaps twenty acres.

It was, and had always been, the heart of Urland. No one knew really why this was so. It was not merely because of its happy location—happy, that is, until the arrival of Vermithrax—or because it was situated on the main road through the south of the country. Over the years, Swanscombe had initiated many popular movements that had affected all of Urland, and had produced more than its share of leaders. In fact, in the century and a half before Casiodorus's taking power and his malignant pact with the dragon, the majority of Urland's leader-kings had come from Swanscombe. Even now, on all matters except those having to do with the pacification of the dragon, as Swanscombe decided, so decided the northern towns. And like it or not, the king often had little choice but to follow.

The travelers paused only very briefly on the little rise overlooking Swanscombe before starting down, their pace quickening as they descended, until at last young Henery actually burst into a run, jogging ahead, waving his arms, shouting. "Everybody! Everybody! Come on out! He did it! Galen did it! He killed Vermithrax! Vermithrax is dead!" But there came no response except for the squawks of angry chickens scampering out of his way and a sudden hoarse rousing of dogs from where they had been sleeping in sun-warmed doorways. Some returned snorting in disgust to the village ahead of the troupe; others wriggled in ecstasy at rediscovered masters. But there were no humans to be seen in the street, and no response came to Valerian's call for her father at the doorway of the forge, Simonburgh, which sat a little apart from the village. Valerian came out shrugging and looking around anxiously.

It was Greil who silenced them with an upraised hand. "Shh! A voice," he said. "From the Granary."

There was indeed an insistent and querulous voice as if someone were complaining about damaged goods or a sterile sheep, a voice none of them at first recognized. Yet it drew them.

The Granary was the center of the village and the traditional place of sharing. Here the village meetings were held, informal ones as well as formal, for much of the village's business was accomplished incidentally while wheat was being flailed, corn and maize were being shucked, or grain was being stored. The Granary was an imposing half-timbered barn about two rods from the village well, with doors at both ends. It was roofed, like all other buildings in Swanscombe, with closely woven thatch. It was large enough to accommodate all the villagers, and here, indeed, they were all to be found, crowding out through the doorways at both ends, rapt by something happening in the center of the building.

"What is it? What's going on?" the travelers asked.

"Shh!" those on the edges replied. "He's going to do it
again."

And at that moment the crowd parted to let out two drenched figures, a man and a woman, incongruously garbed in what appeared to be linen nightshirts. Their bare feet made small slapping sounds on the packed earth, and they left two watery trails. "Damn," the man was muttering, "damn, damn, damn! That water was
cold!"

"Oh, stop complaining," his wife said. "It's a small enough thing to put up with to be saved, isn't it?"

"Saved from what, I'd like to know."

"Saved from monsters! Saved from dragons! Didn't you hear what. . ."

The rest of their conversation was lost to Galen and Valerian, for they had squeezed into the space left by the departing pair and found themselves inside the hall, able to distinguish the voice they had heard from outside. ". . . Saved from sins, born again, purified in spirit, into the fellowship of Jesus Christ, and so protected against all evil and all enormity, even that of Leviathan incarnate—the dragon on yon hillside!"

They could see the speaker also. He was a tall, scrawny man clad in a grimy brown cassock cinched with a rope at his waist. When he spoke of Vermithrax his thin arm probed upwards out of a looping sleeve. A tonsure of unkempt red hair circled his skull and was cut off square above his eyes, one of which turned outward. He seemed to have lost all but two of his teeth, and he was incredibly dirty, from the frayed and manure-caked hem of his garment to his dusty neck.

"Jacopus!" Valerian whispered. No one paid any attention. They were all intent on the priest, who was summoning another convert to the baptismal tub. This was a plump and warty woman of indeterminate age.

"Are you sure it doesn't hurt?" she asked.

"Hurt? Hurt?" Jacopus cried incredulously. "The balm of our Lord? How can you speak of hurt? Think on the torments of Hell!"

"Still, it can't be good for a body to get wet like that. Not all over!"

"It's once in a lifetime, woman. Think of your soul!"

"Well, have you done it yourself?"

"Of course. Three years ago, before I became a priest of the Church."

"Look out, Ingrid! Look what it did to him!" said a heckler near the back, and a ripple of nervous laughter ran through the crowd, laughter silenced by a baleful but curiously amused glance from Jacopus's walled eye.
Laugh!
the eye said.
I feed on laughter!

"Well, all right." Eyes tight shut, the woman stepped into the tub and Jacopus began the sacrament.

"Jacopus," Valerian whispered again. "He came here two weeks ago from the Western Isles, talking about Palladius, and St. Patrick, and Columba, and a lot of other Christians that nobody had ever heard of. Odd duck, isn't he? Funny thing is, he's been making converts ever since, one or two at a time. But he's never managed to bring the whole village together before. Not like this."

Jacopus had meanwhile completed the baptism of Ingrid, and had raised his arms for silence, his glance darting around the Granary. The audience fell silent, and he savored the silence before he began to speak. "You have a monster," he said, and his strange roaming glance isolated each listener and spoke to him or to her alone. "A monster that you think of as a dragon, and with which you have come to certain unspeakable
accommodations.
To it you sacrifice young women. But I am come to tell you that it is the heavy darkness of superstition that has obscured your vision and your comprehension, and that it is no dragon that you have in your presence, for it is well known to the scholars of the Church that there is no such creature nor ever has been, save only in the sickened imaginations of the sinful. This that you call a dragon is in fact Leviathan himself, the first creature of the depths and of godlessness. Further, I am come to save you from your superstition and from your fear, for I shall exorcise this Thing, this Devil from your midst through the power of the Holy Ghost, as it has been given me to do." He again glanced abstractedly around at the assembly. "This is my mission!"

"Too late," said Galen.

"What? What? Who spoke back there?"

"I did." Galen waved an arm above the thronged heads.

"You want to be baptized?" Jacopus's eye blazed. "Come forward, my son!"

"No! No, not that at all. I just wanted to tell you that the job's done. The dragon's finished. Locked up. Dead."

At this, a great commotion arose in the Granary, and to Galen's surprise its tone was more aggrieved and alarmed than jubilant.

"Who
are
you? What sort of news is this? Come forward, and speak!" Simon the blacksmith, Valerian's father, had stepped into the cleared circle, and Jacopus gave way before him. Simon was a huge redheaded man with a broad forehead, a turbulent red beard, and wide-spaced intelligent eyes. Galen would have known from his proud bearing and from a wry and knowing expression around his mouth that he was Valerian's father, even if he had not smiled broadly when he saw Valerian.

A way opened, and Galen went forward and entered the circle. Around him the Swanscombe villagers pressed forward and a hush fell. In the silence, he was aware of the bawling of a distant sheep. The touch of the amulet upon his chest comforted him. In all his life he had never felt so assured. "My name is Galen. I am the apprentice of the Magister Ulrich, the great sorcerer, whom your delegation was sent to seek."

"We had no delegation," a strong voice said.

"We sent
no one,"
said another.

"They went on their own ... no authority."

Galen raised his arms for silence. "All right. No matter. The fact is that Ulrich was slain—murdered—by your official, Tyrian . . ."

". . . strong words . . ." . . best be careful, lad . . ."

"Murdered by Tyrian.
I have inherited all the remnants of his power, and I have used this power to destroy the dragon, Vermithrax!"

"Heresy," Jacopus shrieked, hopping forward like an immense praying mantis. "Hubris! Impiety! Blasphemy! With
what
have you destroyed the dragon? With your chants? With your charms and incantations? With your superstitious mumbo jumbo? Nonsense! There is only one Power to equal that of Vermithrax, and I, Jacopus, am Its instrument!" So saying, he seized the formidable wooden cross that swung at the front of his cassock and raised it toward Galen as if he confronted the Antichrist himself and would bludgeon him to death. His expostulations had left froth on his lips.

"Easy. Easy," Simon said.

"Answer!" Jacopus again brandished the cross, and began to move threateningly toward Galen. "With
what
do you claim to have destroyed the dragon?"

"With this," Galen said, raising his hand.
"Nihil supra mys-terium!"
He gestured briskly toward Jacopus's toes and a lightning ball the size of a man's head cracked there and spun long enough for all in the Granary to see it clearly and to smell its sulphurous odor. The effect was galvanizing. The crowd drew its breath in a low, whispering moan, and Jacopus reeled back, his threatening stance suddenly protective.

Galen was as surprised as anyone. He had not intended to this effect; he had not, in fact, intended anything. He had simply been annoyed by Jacopus's gibes and challenge, and had reacted instinctively, in one of those swelling moments when he was certain that there was in him, that there
surrounded
him, a power infinitely larger than himself, larger even than the amulet secreted within his jerkin. It was a power in which he sensed the presence of generation upon generation, layer upon layer of time, like the striated riverbanks he had often wonderingly examined as a child. He had felt this power, knew instinctively that it was correct and good, and would respond to his invocation. In all his few years, he had never felt more on the side of life than he did when summoning this lightning ball.