Hunting of the Last Dragon (16 page)

“The body's gone,” I said. “And it wasn't Tybalt. It was Richard. I saw his belt caught in the rocks, the studded belt he wore.”

She went very quiet, thinking; then she said, with a look almost of relief: “I didn't kill him, then, that night in the forest.”

There was a movement high in the sun-gold cliff; we looked up to see the dragon emerge, slow, from its lair. It stopped in the entrance, only its head and neck visible to us. Seemingly unaware of us, it looked out to sea.

“Don't move,” warned Jing-wei.

“I wasn't about to,” I said, visions still blazing in my head. “Let it come down here now, if it will, and I'll do battle with it.”

But it flew away, not even coming down to drink. Straight towards the sun it went, barely moving its wings, gliding in the golden wind; then it turned and flew inland, and was lost in the twilight skies beyond the cliff.

When I went back to the shrine Jing-wei was already gathering up the silken dragon she had made. I noticed that she had placed a little willow raft within the sleeve, fixed to the sticks along the seams, and the leather bag of fire-dust was sewn firmly onto it. A long twist of silk emerged from the bag, and I asked her what it was for.

“It will catch alight before the leather does, and take the fire straight to the heart of the dust. Then it will blow apart, flinging out the metal shards and the sharp flints.”

“I brought back some knives from Seagrief, too,”
I said, putting down the sword, and helping her.

“I found them. All are inside, carefully placed. I've been busy while you were out there dreaming.”

“You remember what Richard's seer said about the sword, don't you?”

She smiled at me across the shining length of silk, plum-red in the purple dusk. “Aye, I remember,” she said. “But don't let dreams replace your wits, Jude. You need both. That was Richard's trouble; he had visions, but lacked knowledge.”

Down to the sand we went. The tide had been sucked out towards the world's end, leaving fatal rocks exposed, their jagged points black against the sun's last light. Between the rocks, where the sea had withdrawn, lay long stretches of wet sand.

Out on that shining sand, with the wind to our backs, Jing-wei and I faced the towering cliff and the dragon's cave. She gave me the silken sleeve to hold, telling me to raise it high, the open end towards the wind. The silk streamed from my hands, tugging with the force of the breeze, and Jing-wei held the ball of cord still attached to it.

“Let it go!” she cried.

I did. Of a sudden, like a child's strange toy leaping into life, the scarlet silk writhed and unfurled, swelling with the wind, blossoming, bursting into
shape. Like a living thing it rose, leaping in the warm wind that swept up the face of the cliff. Higher and higher it rose, tugging and tossing, bright as fire against the first stars. Oh, Benedict, it was grand! Never have I seen such a fine thing made by human hands! As I watched Jing-wei feeding it more cord, letting it fly higher, freer, I thought of what she had said about her father standing in such a contraption, being flown like a falcon above hills and valleys, beyond earth and trees, and I longed to do the same.

So enthralled I was, I almost forgot the purpose of our task. But Jing-wei had not: she flew the silk high near the dragon's lair, holding it there by the cord, watching as it rose and dipped in the growing dark.

“'Tis magic!” I breathed.

“Nay, 'tis no more cunning than a windmill's blades, or the sails of a ship,” she said. “It is only a thing harnessing the wind.”

“So if the wind drops, all is lost?” I asked.

“Nay, but we would have to try again another time,” she said. “But it's flying well now, and the wind is strong. If I bring it down it may be damaged on the stones. We'll leave it where it is, to wait for morning, and the dragon.”

And that is what we did. She placed the ball of cord on the beach, and weighted it down with a rock. Then
she got more crabs to eat, which I shared this time, out of my stomach's dire need, and we sat with our backs against the little shrine, to wait. Close at hand, gleaming in the moonlight, lay Tybalt's fateful sword. And all the while the silken dragon soared outside the lair, splendid and defiant, with its cargo of spiked death.

And that, Brother, is a splendid note on which to end this day's work!

All ready and waiting, Brother Benedict? I warned you our tale was hotting up. Which is more than I can say for your monastery. Doesn't the Abbot believe in comfort? I've been peeling onions in the kitchen all morning, just to be near a fire. I'm glad you have one here—do you mind if I pile on a bit more wood? The rain's settled in for good, along with the noble Chen. I think he's addling Jing-wei's wits. Yesterday she asked me if I still thought of her as a freak. She asked other things, too, which wounded me to my soul. I mean, I think so highly of her, it hurts to think I might have done things to make her believe otherwise. I asked her if I had done somewhat to offend her, and she said it wasn't what I'd done that distressed her, but what I hadn't done. And that was all she'd say. I really can't fathom her out, Brother. And you're the wrong man
to help me, being a monk, and blissfully removed from all these difficulties. I tell you, I'm seriously considering becoming a monk myself, just to find some peace. I could swear obedience to Abbot Dominic, for I like him greatly; the vow of poverty wouldn't alter my life at all, and neither would the vow of chastity, the way I'm going. Sorry. I've made you blush again. Back to my tale, to the safer territory of dragons.

That night I kept watch while Jing-wei slept, her head against my shoulder. Of a sudden I realised that the silken sheath had shifted, was lower than before, and dangerously close to the cliff. I could see it clearly in the full moonlight, the colour of blood, spiralling crazily almost against the cliff, its shadow flapping like a tortured thing on the silvered stone. I woke Jing-wei, and she stumbled to her feet, crying, “The cord! Wind in the cord!”

I ran ahead of her to the place where the ball lay under the stones, found it at last in the shallow water, and wound frantically. “Run backwards!” Jing-wei screamed. “Get it away from the cliff!”

I did as she said, though the tide was coming in again, and waves crashed about my legs. The cord tugged in my hands, and afore long I felt the pull grow steady and strong as wind filled the silk, lifting it, and I saw it rise free and powerful again, away from the
cliff. It was up near the dragon's lair when Jing-wei got to me. We both were thigh-deep in the waves.

“Well, it's flying true again,” I said, full of relief.

“Aye, you did well,” said Jing-wei. I grinned, looking at our gorgeous trap. And then I saw another thing: a blackness that flew against the stars, blocking out their light. A glimmering like faded gold, and a breath of fire.

“Jesus' wounds—the dragon's back!” I cried.

I tried to run towards the shrine, the ball of cord still in my hands, but Jing-wei flung herself at me, pushing me back. “Stay here!” she cried. “Fly the silk!”

The dragon had seen us. In horror I watched as, ignoring our trap, it turned instead to the shore, to the place where we stood in the tide. I watched it descend, and it seemed that all time stopped, transfixed with the beast that drifted, deathly slow, between earth and heaven. I was aware of the way its belly glowed brighter then faded as it breathed, and of the beauty of the stars beyond; was aware of the wild, clean coldness of the wind, and the warmth of Jing-wei's hands about my arm; and thought, in those uncanny moments, of my family waiting for me in heaven, perhaps not very far off.

And then the dragon was directly overhead, dropping fast—so fast!—towards us, its breath harsh and
hissing. Fire poured through the night above our heads. Dragging Jing-wei with me, I dived into the tide. The barbed tail whipped the air just above my head. I heard the whistle of wind across taut wings, that awful outpoured breath, the hiss of flame on water. I felt Jing-wei floundering beside me, and caught her close. Waves crashed over us; fire and water mixed, the smell of burning and taste of salt. Praying, sobbing, I grabbed for the lost cord, found it wrapped about my wrist. Then fire again, and the cold force of the sea. Fighting for air, coming up through churning sand and sea, I saw the dragon spiral upwards, felt the rush of wind and fire and foam, glimpsed water drops aflame.

Then another wave broke across us. Still holding Jing-wei, I staggered to my feet. My eyes stung with salt and sand; I scarce could see. At last I got my breath, and we both looked up, saw the scarlet silk still flying, and the silver brightness of the stars. But the dragon was gone.

Cursing, I helped Jing-wei up onto the dry sand. The tide tugged at us; our clothes were filled with sand and sea, heavy, dragging. Still holding the cord, I searched the skies, the shadowy cliffs, the long stretch of ashen shore. But the beast was gone, vanished. I thought of the time at Lan's when it had disappeared
behind her house, and then come back again, silent as a leaf afloat on wind. Was it just above the cliff, drifting, waiting to swoop down in final attack?

“Sweet Jesus, 'tis playing with us!” I cried, panic-stricken.

Jing-wei took the cord of the flying silk, unwinding the tangle from my wrist. My eyes never left the skies, but I could feel her fingers cold and trembling on my skin. I was trembling myself, so much that my teeth clattered.

“It has not the brains for playing hide-and-seek,” she said, very low and sounding calm, though her voice was not quite steady. “It is gone, frightened off for a time. It can't be in its lair; it would have set the fire-dust alight.”

“It'll be back, make no doubt,” I said. “The skies grow light already; it will come again, with the day.”

I discovered, then, that speaking hurt my lips. They were burned, not badly, but as they sometimes were when I worked all day in the summer fields. I looked more closely at Jing-wei. In the growing light I saw that she, too, was burned a little. But she must have turned her face away from the dragon's blast, for only one ear was scorched, a part of her right cheek, and the edges of her hair. I realised that we had been saved by the sea, when the dragon poured its fire on us.

Mayhap Jing-wei was thinking the same thing, for she said, grateful-like, “Fate is on our side, Jude. We have another chance. 'Tis more than most have, who take on dragons.”

She looked up to check that the silk still flew aright, then placed the ball of cord beneath a stone again, to hold it firm. Her movements were slow, for she was hampered by wet skirts. Then, telling me to keep watch—as if I needed telling!—she went into the shrine, and came out with a pot of Lan's ointment for our burns. “I'll anoint our war wounds,” she said, with a brief smile. “And after, if the beast is still not back, we'll find some breakfast, for I'm mortal hungry after our first battle.”

“'Twas hardly a battle,” I said. “A botch-up, more like.”

She shot me a disapproving look, and began spreading Lan's potion on my scorched face.

While we were anointing our burns, the wind began to drop. The silken sheath dipped low and flapped against the cliff, so I helped Jing-wei bring it down. We laid it carefully in the shrine, to wait until the wind's return. The sun came up, and still the dragon did not return. As the day grew hot, we spread our outer clothes to dry on the sand beside the shrine. I
could not help thinking on the strangeness of it—me, bashful Jude of Doran, on a lone shore with a lone maid, and both of us in our underthings. And nought exciting happening, excepting that any moment we might be attacked by a dragon.

With great caution, still scanning the skies, we went down to the shore and hunted crabs and the strange sea-creatures in their spiral shells. I was not hungry, but Jing-wei ate hungrily enough, while I kept lookout. I was in a sweat, I don't mind confessing, mortal scared in case the beast returned and found us unprepared; but in the early afternoon the wind came in, constant as before, and we flew the snare again. And again we tied the end of the cord to a large stone, so we could take shelter and yet leave the silken trap in place.

Then we pulled on our dry outer clothes and sat in the sun with our backs to the shrine, and kept watch for the dragon.

All afternoon we waited. And all the time my fears grew, for it was not the dragon's habit to be away all day. Disturbed, had it changed its tactics, grown cunning and more deadly still? I did not voice my fears, but sat with my hand on the sword, my eyes scouring the skies, the restless sea, the savage cliffs. And near
that deadly place at the top of the cliffs, bloodred in the sun, soared the silken snare, serene and strong, waiting, waiting.

Then, an hour before sundown, we spied the dragon—a small spot in the northwest skies. Without a word, Jing-wei and I both stood and went into the shrine. I stood behind her, looking over her head, as we watched from the tiny window. We did not speak, but we both knew that if the dragon came down first to the beach, as it had before, then these moments might be our last. I put my arms about her, and she covered my hands with her own, and held tight.

To our horror, the dragon did come down to the beach. But it went only to the sea, and spent a long time drinking. It stayed there in the shallow waves, cleaning itself, and I noticed that its limp was worse than before, and once it tore at its wound with its horned snout, as if it were trying to tear away the pain. Then it left the sea and turned towards us. My heart near stopped, and I felt Jing-wei grow taut within my arms. But the beast lingered on the foaming edge of the tide, sniffing at some low rocks and clumps of dark seaweed. It licked them with its forked tongue, tore at them with its horn, then breathed fire on them. I wondered whether, with its poor eyesight, it thought the
rocks and weed were Jing-wei and me. Mayhap it had taken us for sea-creatures, and did not connect us with the shrine and human foe. The tide had come in again, covering our footprints and the smell of us, and though the dragon was long examining those rocks and lumps of weed, it came no nearer to our hiding place.

At last it lifted its wings to the wind, and leaped upwards. Water streamed from its limbs, and its bright scales shone like gems in the evening light. Again it struck me how beautiful it was, how graceful and shining and strong. Almost lazily, it soared towards its lair.

I thought at first the dragon had not seen the silk, for it seemed quite unconcerned; then of a sudden it gave a peculiar, raucous cry and spread its wings to slow its flight. It drifted back and forth along the cliff, its long neck outstretched towards the snare. It seemed unsure, cautious; then it began wheeling about the silk like a bird about its prey. I hardly breathed, for expectation and fear, and Jing-wei whispered something in her own language—a prayer, mayhap.

Then I saw that the dragon must have got entangled in the cord, for the silken sheath tossed violently, and the beast's flight became fitful. It veered and turned, all the time uttering its rough and dreadful cries; then it darted at the silk and shot a breath of fire.
The silk flashed, caught the flame, danced, writhed like a living thing ablaze. And then the fire-dust caught alight.

Radiance leaped across the skies, along the cliff, the brilliant beach, the bright dragon. Then came the sound, booming like thunder from hell itself. The very earth groaned; I heard a roaring and cracking, and the cliff began to slide. Slow it was, as I remember it: half the world collapsing in a cloud of sunlit dust; the scent of the fire-dust; the vast blackness falling, falling; and, sinking with it, the dragon, tumbling over and over, fire and light, flame and dust, beautiful even in death. And all around rained shards of rock, and dust, and bits of stone.

A long time the rumbling continued, perilously close. Crouching down, I sheltered Jing-wei with my body, while stones and earth rained down upon the shrine. Dust poured in through the windows and door and through the cracks in the roof, and once a rock thrice the size of my head crashed through, splintering the roof and missing us by a hand's breadth. At last the dust settled and all was quiet outside. Trembling, Jing-wei and I stood and crept out onto the shore.

There was hardly any beach remaining. Half the cliff had sunk into the sea, and at the top, vivid against
the sunset skies, were the remains of some of the houses of Seagrief. Others had fallen, and I could see the burned timber and roof beams sticking like bones out of the rubble. That part of the cliff with the pathway had survived intact, along with St. Alfric's shrine. All else was gone, tumbled down in a chaos of shattered rock and broken earth. On a slab of jagged rock hung a strip of tattered scarlet silk. It fluttered in the wind, bright like a banner on a battleground. And nearby, tarnished and unmoving, lay the dragon.

“I won't need the sword,” I said. And I remember feeling disappointed a little, for the prophecy had been wrong.

Jing-wei was looking across the shattered rocks at the dragon. “Get the sword,” she said, and I caught alarm in her tone.

Full of dread, I looked again to where the dragon lay. Its head was raised, waving about on that long neck as if it were a flower too heavy for its stem. Groaning, screaming, the dragon breathed fire. Then it tried to lift itself on its front legs, but failed.