RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer (19 page)

“Thank you,” Brian said.

Mick grunted a third time. “ ‘Tis most civil it’s bein’ this momin’.” “He’s being,” Brewster corrected him. “He is a person, you know. In fact, he really was a person last night. It was a full moon.” “So that part of the legend’s true, then?” Mick said with interest.

“Aye, most of the legend’s true,” said Brian, “save for a few embellishments that some have added to the story.” “I promised Brian I would try to help him,” Brewster explained.

“Can you?” Mick asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Brewster replied, “but I promised him I’d try.” He glanced outside. “You’re alone?” “Aye, none of the others came,” said Mick. “Scared off, they were.” , , “You see?” said Brian. “I told you that I frightened them.” ,, ., “Oh, ‘tis not for fear of you they didn’t come, said Mick. “ ‘Twas for fear of the dragon.” “ ‘Dragon’?” Brewster said. “Aye, the dragon.” “What dragon?” “The one sittin’ up there on the tower,” Mick replied, pointing up.

For a moment that seemed to hang in eternity, Brewster stared at Mick, standing there just a couple of feet or so inside the open doorway with his peregrine bush on a leash, and thought that he was joking. Then hoped that he was joking. Hoped very, very hard. Only the expression on Mick’s face was not the deadpan look of someone pulling someone else’s leg. It was the normal expression of someone mentioning something he’d just seen and did not find especially remarkable, the look of someone who’d just glanced up at the clouds and said, “I think it’s going to rain.” “A dragon?” As if he were sleepwalking, Brewster moved past Mick and stepped up to the open door. He wasn’t sure what he’d intended. Perhaps he had intended to step outside, walk out into the yard, and look up at the tower, but he never got any farther than the threshold, for what he saw through the open doorway was the shadow of the keep’s tower angling across the yard, and right about where the shadow of the tower should have ended, there was another shadow, a shadow of something very large, with huge, reptilian wings.

Brewster reached out with his right hand, took hold of the door, and gently closed it. Then he turned around and leaned back against the door. His knees felt weak and his mouth had gone completely dry.

Something clanged loudly on the floor and a voice cried out, “Ouch! Doc!” Brewster had dropped the chamberpot. He bent down and picked it up.

“I’m sorry, Brian,” he said in a dull voice. He clutched the chamberpot to his chest with both hands and looked at Mick.

“Is that...” he started, but his voice had broken and sounded extremely high. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Is that... really... a dragon?” “Aye,” said Mick simply.

“How ...” His voice broke again and came out soprano. He cleared his throat with a deliberate effort. “How... long ... has it been... up there?” “Sure, and I don’t know,” said Mick. “It was sittin’ up there when I came.” He frowned. “You didn’t know about it, then?” “No,” said Brewster, his voice coming out in a high squeak again. He cleared his throat hard, three times in succession. “Didn’t that...” He fumbled for words, and then settled for simply pointing up toward the ceiling. “... strike you as... rather unusual?” Mick merely shrugged. “Sure, and I thought you must have summoned it.” Brewster cleared his throat again. “It... you... weren’t .. .frightened?” “What, of the dragon?” Mick said. He shrugged again. “Why should I be? Dragons don’t eat leprechauns.” “Oh,” said Brewster. “What about .. .people?” “Sometimes,” Mick said. “They prefer cows, though. More meat on the bones.” “Ah,” said Brewster, nodding. “I see.” “You didn’t summon it, then?” asked Mick, speaking as if seeing a dragon sitting up on your neighbor’s roof were a perfectly normal occurrence.

“Noooo,” said Brewster, swallowing hard. He handed the chamberpot to Mick. “Hold on to Brian for a moment, will you?” Mick took the pot and Brewster ran upstairs to his bedroom, just below the battlement of the tower. As he ran into the room, he could see a large, scaled tail flicking back and forth, just outside the window.

“Oh, boy...” he said. “Oh, boy ... keep calm, now, just keep calm....” He tiptoed over to the bed, reached down underneath it, and slid out the pack that contained his emergency supply kit, which he had pulled out of the time machine just before the fuel tanks had exploded. Glancing up at the window, as if expecting some giant clawed hand to come reaching in for him, he fumbled inside the pack until his fingers felt what he was looking for. He pulled out a snub-nosed stainlesssteel revolver and a box of cartridges.

His hands trembling, he opened the cylinder and started loading it. He loaded all six chambers, then closed the cylinder. It was a .357-caliber Smith & Wesson Combat Magnum, specially polished and engraved, with a two-and one-half-inch barrel and pearl grips, one of a matched pair he had been presented with by the CEO of EnGulfCo International, who was also on the board of Smith & Wesson. Its companion revolver was an equally fancy .38-caliber Chiefs Special, which he had packed in the emergency supply kit of the original time machine. He hadn’t really thought that he would ever actually have need of it, but it seemed like the sort of thing an emergency supply kit should contain, so he’d opted for the smaller caliber, less intimidating gun at First. However, the .38 was now in the missing time machine, and as he gazed down at the loaded, snub-nosed .357 in his hand, he was suddenly very glad he had the more powerful one. Nevertheless, it seemed very small compared to what was sitting on the tower just above him. Brewster was suddenly painfully aware of his lack of experience with firearms.

He had only gone shooting once before, when the CEO of EnGulfCo took him to the range to “try ‘em out.” He had instructed Brewster in the use of the matched revolvers, giving him a short lecture on gun safety, proper sight alignment, trigger control, and so forth, and Brewster had turned in a game, if not quite adequate performance. Actually, he had gotten quite a kick out of shooting them, but the guns had made Pamela nervous and he’d put them away.

“Are you goin’ up to see it, then?” Brewster jumped about a foot and almost dropped the gun. He took a deep breath and turned around. “Dammit, Mick,” he whispered harshly, “don’t do that!” “Why are you whisperin’?” asked Mick, coming into the room with the chamberpot tucked under his arm.

Brewster merely pointed toward the ceiling.

“Ah,” said Mick. “You’re plannin’ to sneak up on it and blast it, like you did Robie McMurphy’s foolish bull?” Brewster looked down at the revolver in his hand. What the hell was he planning to do? Suppose bullets didn’t work on it? Suppose it was magical and invulnerable to gunfire? Suppose it breathed fire? He glanced up at Mick and his gaze focused on the chamberpot. “You didn’t tell me about dragons!” he accused Brian. “Didn’t think of it,” said Brian. “You don’t see many of them about these days. They’re quite rare, really.” “Not rare enough, if you ask me,” said Brewster. “What the hell are we supposed to do?” “You might ask it what it wants,” suggested Mick.

“Ask it what it wants?” said Brewster.

“Aye,” said Mick.

“And I suppose it’ll answer me,” said Brewster. “No, never mind, don’t say anything. It talks, right?” “Aye, it speaks,” said Mick. “You’ve never met a dragon before, then?” “Actually, no, I haven’t,” Brewster said. “This’ll be my first.” He snorted. “What am I saying? I’m not going up there!” “Good morning,” said a loud, deep voice just outside the window. It sounded a cross between a human voice and a threshing machine.

Brewster jumped and spun around, raising the revolver. He found it difficult-no, he found it impossible to keep his hands from trembling.

“Well, now that’s not very friendly, is it?” There was a large head just outside the window. Brewster couldn’t see all of it. Just a huge yellow eye and some iridescent scales. “Do you always threaten your visitors with a gun?” Brewster stared at the fearsome yellow eye and tried to will himself not to be afraid. And then, suddenly, something occurred to him. He lowered the revolver slightly and frowned. He glanced from the revolver to the dragon’s eye outside the window. “You know what this is?” he said with surprise.

“Of course, I know what it is,” the dragon replied. “It’s a revolver. And a rather small one, at that.” Brewster lowered the gun. He lowered his jaw, as well.

“Oh, come on up,” the dragon said impatiently. “I am not going to hurt you, but I am getting a crick in my neck, looking down like this.” The head disappeared.

Brewster shook his head. “I don’t believe this.” He dropped the gun on the bed, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, this is too much! I don’t care what happens, this I’ve got to see!” He ran up the stairs to the top of the tower, with Mick following close behind. The dragon was sitting perched on the wall, its talons dug into the stone. Brewster stood and simply stared at it with openmouthed astonishment.

It was about the size of an eighteen-wheeler, with a long tail; huge, batlike, leathery wings; gleaming, iridescent scales; and a large, triangular-shaped head on a long neck. It was lapping water out of the cistern, like a dog drinking from a toilet bowl, only much louder.

“Jesus Christ,” said Brewster.

“No, Rory,” said the dragon.

“ ‘Rory’?” Brewster said.

“Actually, it’s only a nickname,” said the dragon. “Human throats cannot make all the sounds necessary to pronounce my given name. Rory is sort of an abbreviation. How do you do?” “Uh ... fine, thank you,” Brewster said weakly.

“And you are?” “Uh.. .Brewster. Dr. Marvin Brewster. But my friends just...” His voice trailed off. “My God, you really are a dragon!” “Allow me to compliment you on your powers of observation, Doctor,” Rory said wryly. “I see you have company. I hope I haven’t dropped in at an inconvenient time.” “Oh... uh... no, that’s... quite all right,” said Brewster. “Uh ... this is my friend Mick O’Fallon, and... uh... the chamberpot he’s holding is actually Prince Brian the Bold.” The dragon nodded. “Always happy to greet one of the little people,” it said. Then it squinted at the chamberpot. “Prince Brian, eh? I see you’ve run afoul of Caithrix.” “That’s the wizard who enchanted me!” said Brian. “How did you know?” “I can smell his aura on you,” the dragon said. “Caithrix always had an especially pungent aura.” “Had?” said Brian.

“Well, he’s been dead these past one hundred years or so.” “One hundred years?” said Brewster, staring at the chamberpot.

“Is that a long time?” asked Brian.

“You don’t look a day over eighteen!” said Brewster.

“One of those ‘for all eternity’ enchantments, eh?” the dragon said. “You must really have annoyed him. Although Caithrix always did annoy rather easily. Arrogant little adept, he was. Even disdained to use a magename, just like his grandson, Warrick.” “Warrick the White is Caithrix’s grandson?” Brian said.

“His daughter Katherine’s son,” the dragon said. “Even more arrogant than his father was, doubtless because he was born a bastard and felt he had a lot to prove.” “Katherine’s son?” said Brian. “Bom a... then that means... Oh, gods! Warrick the White is my son?” “Ah,” the dragon said. “That would seem to explain your current predicament.” “I can’t believe any of this,” said Brewster. “And I had to leave my video camera behind!” “Pity,” said the dragon. “I would have enjoyed seeing a videotape of myself. Though I am not entirely certain it r would work, you know. I am not sure if you can photograph magical creatures.” “Wait a minute,” Brewster said. “You know about video? And you knew a revolver when you saw it! How?” “Oh, I know all about your world,” Rory replied. “I have seen it often in my dreams. Dragons dream in different dimensions, you know.” “In black and white or color?” Brewster asked, repressing a sudden urge to. giggle.

“In color, of course,” Rory replied. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this and taking a drink from your cistern, but I was merely passing by on my way back home and I could not help noticing what you’ve done here. A water lift, an aqueduct, a nice job of tuck-pointing on the stonework... I really like what you’ve done with the place.” “Uh... thanks.” “I merely wanted to pop in and say hello. I have never met anyone from the dream dimensions before. However did you manage to cross over?” “Well... that’s rather a long story,” Brewster said. “Excellent!” the dragon said with a rumble of contentment. “I do so love a good story!” MacGregor the Bladesman, better known as Mac the Knife, stood outside the cottage of Blackrune 4, looking very grim. It was actually a rather sizable dwelling for a cottage, since its former occupant had been a wizard, after all, but it was still basically a cottage, complete with thatch roof and wooden shutters, garden, whitewashed picket fence, and all the cozy accoutrements. Sort of an upscale cottage.

Mac and his men had ridden quite a long way, all the way from Pittsburgh, and they were tired and dusty from their journey. Fortunately, while en route, they had been set upon at least three times by various groups of highwaymen and ruffians-four, if you counted the ones who recognized their mistake before they got too close and ran like hell-and these slight diversions had served to break up the monotony of what would otherwise have been a rather dull and tiresome trip.

“Anything?” said Mac as his three henchmen came out of the cottage.

The men simply shrugged. They bore a strong resemblance to one another, which was only proper, as the three of them were brothers.

Mac gave a low grunt and frowned. “Well, I suppose ‘twas too much to hope for,” he said.

He had a wonderful speaking voice, deep, melifluous, and very manly, and if he had been bom about a thousand years later, and in another dimension, he could have had a great career as a radio broadcaster or a Shakespearean actor, or perhaps dubbing the voices of malevolent villains in science fiction films.

He could also sing and play guitar, and those talents, combined with his rugged, virile good looks, set many a female heart aflutter. He had dark, curly hair; a handsome beard that he kept nicely groomed and trimmed, unlike the facial forests sported by most of his contemporaries; and he had dark, piercing brown eyes that could either flash with merriment or glower with malevolence. His features were ruggedly angular, with a square jaw, a straight and wellshaped nose, and good cheekbones.... In short, he was a dam good-looking guy. (Or a good-looking guy from Dam, take your pick.) He was a manly man with a massive, six-foot two-inch frame and a likable, charming disposition. The fact that he also happened to be a professional assassin was purely incidental.

Sean MacGregor looked upon it as a job and nothing more. Whenever he was asked why he chose this particular occupation, he would simply shrug and say, “ “Tis a gift.” And ‘twas, too. He was remarkably good at it.