Dragonslayer: A Novel (17 page)

"The Old Magic!" shrieked Jacopus. "A heretic, an unbeliever, a wielder of the black arts!"

Angry now, Galen caused a second lightning ball to leap around the priest's ankles, sizzling and stinging like a glob of water on a hot skillet, until Jacopus flung up pleading hands. "I have told you that my power comes from Ulrich, Magister Ipis-simus, murdered by Tyrian. I have used that power today against the dragon. If you do not believe me, then send a delegation. Take Jacopus and go to the Blight, and you will see that there is a rock at the mouth of Vermithrax's cave, and no sign of life behind it."

"Believe him," Malkin said solemnly, from near the back.

"It's true," Greil said.

"I saw it with my own eyes," said Henery, pointing a spindly finger as he relived his experience. "He was a bird! A white bird! And he soared from the valley to the ledge before the cave, and brought down the boulder, and soared back to us where we stood on the edge of the greensward! And at the same time there was a sound like the heralds make on Casiodorus's court days and . . ."

"Enough!" Malkin whispered hoarsely, elbowing him.

"It's dead," Galen said. "Truly. Go have a look."

"All right, son," said Simon after a moment. "I think we will."

Several of the assembly quickly organized themselves, and in the setting sun a small and solemn procession wound out along the serpentine road from Swanscombe toward the Blight. At dusk they arrived at the edge where, despite the deepening shadows, they could clearly see the blocked entrance to the cave. They stood very quietly for a long time. At last Simon said, "Can it really be? Is this possible?"

The others did not reply but stood in awe.

And then there arose from the throat of one of the younger men, a lad betrothed to a young woman who had so far escaped the fate of the Lottery, a cry so eerie and so jubilant that none had heard anything like it before. It was a keen and wailing cry, half joy and half lament, a sound that hung like a line of icicles in the cold air. Soon it was taken up by the others in different forms-laughter, and sobbing, and half-hysterical ululations that drifted over the Blight in a shrill cacophony. The change in their lives made by that shifted boulder was so vast that it was beyond expression in words; it required primal sounds. To be dragonless; to be without the threat of Lottery and ritual bereavement—that was, for the moment, almost incomprehensible. And so they wailed incredulously, like beasts, and fell to slapping each other like children. Eventually, soberer and quieter, they took the news back to the village. "It's true," they said when they arrived. "There is an enormous boulder . . . much, much bigger than the dragon . . ." And they were received with the same sounds of fearful belief and hopeful incredulity.

"Friends," said Simon, wiping away tears and holding up his arms when things had quietened, "it has been many years since we in Swanscombe have had cause for celebration. But tonight we have such cause. And I propose a feast and a dance in honor of Galen, who has freed us from the dragon peril."

"Yes! Yes!" they all shouted. "For Galen!"

Some of the men had already broken open casks in the rear of the Granary, and were raising dripping tankards. "To Galen!" And some of the girls had crowded close, reaching out to touch him. "Galen, will you dance with me? Will you dance with me, Galen?"

He was nodding, anxious not to give offence, but searching over the heads for Valerian. He could not find her. Only Simon was there, saying, "I'd be honored to have you as my guest. For as long as you stay in Swanscombe. You are welcome here."

Galen was still nodding, still looking. "Your dau . . ." he began, and caught himself barely in time, warned by the sudden horror in Simon's eyes. "Your son. Where is Valerian? He was here earlier."

"At Simonburgh. Come. We'll go there now."

Valerian was in fact already in her sleeping loft, filled with a new emotion which she knew was jealousy. She had watched the girls fawning on Galen and she had been angry. At that moment she had made a decision and hurried back to Simonburgh to act upon it. In the warmth of the loft above the drowsing cattle, she stripped and turned to look in the mirror of polished bronze that her father had fashioned for her when she was very young. She saw a boyish frame, sinewy and small-breasted still, but a body yearning toward womanhood. It was absurd to conceal it, foolish to pretend further. She washed, using the conduit of warm water that Simon had cunningly devised, leading from the forge, and then she opened a fragrant, cedar-lined chest at the foot of her bed, and she began to dress.

Later, when Simon and Galen arrived, she was still dressing; even after Galen had washed and Simon had attended to the needs of his cattle and oxen, she was still not ready. "You go ahead," she called down, in answer to Simon's query. "I'll catch up later."

And so Simon and Galen walked out together toward the Granary. It was a perfect summer night. The storm had passed completely and a new moon hung among clouds of stars on the eastern horizon. The air was soft and still; there was an odor of freshly washed blossoms, and from the edges of the village came the gentle lowing of cattle.

In the Granary, the party was beginning. From all over the village people were congregating boisterously, bearing food for the feast—huge tureens of steaming soup, piglets and lambs still on the spit, trays of hot bread, and huge wooden bowls of roasted seeds and vegetables. No one had spared anything, for an ugly past had fallen behind that day, and a new era was about to begin, an era that must be generously greeted to bear its promised bounty. One after the other, mead kegs were trundled from the stone cellars, rumbling along the ramps with a sound like gigantic laughter, and as quickly as one was emptied another was raised in its place. If the common village supply had ever been depleted, men would have slipped quietly away to raise trap doors in their own wooden floors and to draw out a keg put down for a happier day; for if ever that time were to come, it was now, the day of the death of Vermithrax.

In the loft at one end of the Granary a group of musicians had formed, and instruments not publicly played for as long as the oldest resident could remember now made their appearance. It was clear from the adeptness with which these were handled— flutes and lutes and tambourines—that the old skills had not been lost, but had passed from father to son in the evening seclusion of Swanscombe homes, quietly, the inherent yearning of their chords muted and tentative, lest Vermithrax magically overhear, or lest Casiodorus's troops object. It was clear also that the years of suppression had not lessened their art but had deepened and enriched it, for beneath the jubilance of the moment lay strains of bereavement, and grief, and suffering, and impotent rage. But joy was uppermost now. The instruments sang with a pulsing beauty and richness that far surpassed the sum of their parts and that several times caused the dancers to pause in the middle of their rounds, to listen openmouthed to an artistry they had not heard for years.

The mead flowed, the music grew in grace and variety, the tables bent beneath the weight of food. Tapers and torches lit the Granary and spilled light into the square, just as the music and the dancers themselves spilled into the cool night air.

As Galen and Simon approached the square, excited by the light and the sounds of merriment, they were startled by a figure that detached itself from the shadows and scuttled toward them.

"Jacopus!" Simon exclaimed.

The priest blocked their way, pointing, a huge insect. "Sinners!"

"Oh for heaven's sake, man!" Simon would have walked on, but Jacopus seized his arm.

"Unbelievers!" He was not declaiming now, but speaking quietly, and with a terrible vehemence. "Heathen! You believe this creature Vermithrax is mortal, to be slain like any other. You believe that it
has
been slain by this . . . this sorcerer. Credulous fools! I tell you that this is not a dragon, but the Prince of Darkness, and that it is not dead but sleeping. No human can slay it, for it is not mortal. It can be faced only by the power of the Holy Ghost, and driven deep underground or deep into the souls of men." Jacopus reeled slightly. He was very tired, and hungry, and deeply shaken by the events of the day. His teeth protruded, and he was pitifully pale.

Simon sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "My friend, perhaps what you say is true. Perhaps it is given to you to see deeper into these matters than do we. But for now, for this evening, it seems to us that we are at peace. It seems to us that Weird, or Fate, or God, has granted us a reprieve, and that we are safe. You say our safety is for the moment only; well, perhaps it is. Perhaps you are right, but it is real nevertheless and to be enjoyed. Come! Go with us to the Granary. Share our feast. Drink our mead. You are a man like us, and with the yearnings and appetites of a man. For tonight, enjoy. Tomorrow will be soon enough to think stern thoughts and to speak of the dragons of the soul."

Galen nodded agreement. This was a direct and manly speech, quite in keeping with the character of Simon, whose only fault, so far as Galen knew, had been to guard his daughter. But Jacopus shrank from the other man's touch, and his outstretched hand wavered between bestowing a blessing and leveling a curse; in that state of agonized indecision, an indecision reflected in his face and in his inarticulate growl, he drew back into the shadows from which he had emerged, and vanished.

Simon sighed. "Poor Jacopus. It would have meant so much to him to have killed that dragon."

"Probably," Galen said, "it takes courage to be Jacopus." The remark surprised him, for it was something Ulrich might have said. Evidently it also surprised Simon, for he was looking at his young companion in a fresh way, as if he had just passed a test, and he touched him on the shoulder before they entered the Granary.

As they went in a hush fell. The conversations stopped, the music trailed away, the dancers ceased their circling. For a moment, all was so still that Galen heard distinctly the dripping from a loose tap on the largest mead cask, and the soft call of an owl on the roof peak. Then Simon accepted the flagon of mead that someone handed to him and, turning slightly, raised it toward his companion. "To Galen," he said. "Dragonslayer!"

"To Galen!" the villagers cried, lifting their flagons. "Dragon-slayer!" And in the applause that followed, Galen was drawn down into their midst, and thumped on the back, and shaken so fervently by the hand that the torches and the smiling faces became a dizzying blur. The musicians, bowing toward him, struck up a lively dance tune in his honor. Someone pressed a brimming flagon of mead into his hand. He had no idea how many men shook his hand, how many attractive girls edged close to speak to him. He forgot utterly his fatigue and the terrifying events of the day and began to enjoy himself.

After a time, however, the music trailed away and the revelers in the Granary again fell silent. The girl to whom Galen was talking was staring at the door, gaping in astonishment. He turned.

Valerian had entered. She was stunning. She was to the other girls as a rare and elegant bird is to the common run of sparrows and stolid robins. Over her long white dress she wore a cloak of rich blue, and both garments accentuated the curves of her young body. A simple white cap enclosed her short hair, and supple calfskin sandals her feet. The torchlight glinted on the torque at her throat, on the magnificent silver and enamel clasp holding her cloak at her breast, on the wrist bands, and on the low-drooping silver belt buckle at her belly, all cunningly interwoven with serpentine designs.
She is magnificent,
Galen thought.
A princess!

He was aware of a circulating whisper, at first incredulous:
Valerian?
Then astonished:
Valerian . . . Valerian!
He felt the crowd's mood slide through awe and confusion, to uncertainty, to understanding of what this transformation meant. Then came the inevitable anger. "A woman?" someone said aloud. "A
woman!
And while our daughters risked their lives and died,
she
stayed safe in the guise of a man!" Indignation quickly swept the hall, and soon even children too young to understand the comment were echoing it and pointing accusatory fingers.

Throughout, Valerian remained serenely aloof, utterly confident, waiting for the hubbub to subside. When at last it did, she said, "It is true we cheated in the Lottery, my father and I, and it is true that I have escaped the dragon when perhaps one of your daughters would have been spared instead. For that I shall make whatever amends the elders shall decree. But it is also true that it was I who urged the journey to Cragganmore, home of the sorcerer Ulrich, a journey that brought Galen, and hence resulted in the crushing of Vermithrax." Her chin raised challengingly. "Had I, a mere woman, been sacrificed as the tradition demanded, you would not now be celebrating the defeat of the dragon, but would be skulking in your houses, counting the days to the next Lottery and the next victim." She paused, and in that silence they knew that it was true. "So, I yield myself to your mercy, certain that I am, as you are, the instrument of incomprehensible Fate that works all things, and, therefore, all things for the best."

In the silence after she had finished, the owl cried again, and one of the musicians in the loft nervously cleared his throat. Then a remarkable thing occurred. The oldest of the old women came forward from the shadows of the hall. She was a crone—so crippled and bent that even to walk was an affliction, and so hideously ugly that people looked away in pity. Yet her voice, high and piercing as a hawk's cry, held them. "She speaks the truth. Had she not survived, we would not be celebrating this night. Listen to me! I have lived more years than I can count, and all of them in Swanscombe. I have known women, always, to take whatever defense they had against the Lottery. She is not the first. And some now here know whereof I speak." Her gaze swept the hall, and many of the women present dropped their eyes, and their expressions softened from outrage to shame and regret. "But
her
deception has brought us peace. So let us remember, and forgive."