“He is telling the truth,” Darius said darkly.
The abbot’s eyes swelled with disbelief. “But that’s preposterous. How can you —?” His speech was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Yes! What is it?”
Brother Malcolm stepped in. “Abbot, forgive the interruption, but I thought you ought to know that Brother Terence is running about the corridors, prattling wildly about his attack. He is saying he saw —”
“An angel!” cried a voice, and in burst Brother Terence, eyes as large as hard-boiled eggs. He ran to Brother Bernard and clamped his hands, shaking them as though they were a cup of dice. “An angel, brother. A dark-haired angel.” He jumped towards the abbot. “She appeared before my eyes!”
“Restrain him!” cried the abbot, as Terence fell against him, clinging to his robe like a wild dog.
“I will deal with this,” Brother Darius said, stopping Brother Malcolm before he could advance. He tapped Brother Terence lightly on the shoulder. As he turned, Brother Darius gripped his wrist and pulled it down as if striking a lever.
Terence, swaying slightly, stared back mesmerized.
“You saw an angel,” said Darius. “Describe it to me.”
“Hair,” pined Terence, his pupils expanding. “Hair as dark as the perfect night. Wings, brother. Beautiful wings. I tried … I …” With a pained expression, he stretched out a hand.
“You tried to touch her?”
Terence nodded, helping a tear stream down his cheek. “I meant no harm. No harm at all. But the creature …” He stood back. “No! No! No!” And suddenly he was buckling up, covering his face.
Brother Malcolm caught him around the midriff as he fell, and took him down to the safety of the floor.
“There!” snapped Bernard, rounding on the abbot. “He was trying to touch an angel and the creature protected it. Doesn’t that prove that —?”
“It was not an angel,” Brother Darius cut in. “Merely a spirit, in the guise of a bird.”
“Bird?” said Bernard. He searched the bald-headed face for more.
“On my walk here, I saw a raven. A bird often associated with portents and spirits.”
“Is it friend or foe?” Bernard gulped.
“That depends on which side you stand,” said Darius.
“Oh, this is beyond me!” the abbot blustered. “Birds. Squirrels. Mystical scribblings. I applied to the Elders for advice upon this creature, and the sooner it is done, the sooner my brethren can return to their sanity. Please, shall we go to the stables and finish this?”
“No,” said Brother Darius, gathering up his sleeves. “First I will commingle with Brother Vincent.”
“Commingle?” said the abbot. “What kind of phrase is that?”
“He means to mix, to share thoughts,” Bernard muttered, trying to reason out why his head was suddenly so full of doubts about this monk.
The abbot ran a troubled hand across his brow. “Oh, very well, if you must. This way —”
A knock. Yet another monk appeared at the door. Brother Rufus, striking a timid pose.
“Not now,” said the abbot, sweeping past with Darius and Bernard close behind.
Brother Rufus bowed to him, quietly grateful. He had been guarding the restless dragon when, of all things, the lightbulb in the barn had blown with a pop that had showered the floor with heated glass, scaring him nine-tenths out of his wits. It did not take a genius in electrical wiring to know right away that the cause was not simple wear and tear. He had tracked the problem to this piece of cable, taken from the base of the central support. He twisted it once or twice in his hand. Teeth. One could see the indentations. Sharp teeth, gnawing through the plastic sheathing. Annoying, but what was done was done. He had better light a lantern and return to his duties.
Teeth. Yes.
Probably a rat.
60 ABBOT HUGO’S OFFICE, NINETY SECONDS LATER
It was a nuisance, but it had its worth sometimes. He had bought it to record important messages when he was away at prayer. It would cut in after just four rings. The manual had instructions on how to change that, but manuals irritated Abbot Hugo, almost as much as telephones themselves.
That day when it cut in, a woman left a message. In a clear but troubled voice she said: “My name is Elizabeth Pennykettle. I wish to leave an urgent message for a student called David Rain, who I believe may be with you any moment now. Please tell him to call me or come straight home. It’s very important. I believe he’s in serious danger.” {PAUSE} “And if … if a monk called Brother Arthur is among you, please tell him I never really went away….”
61 STABLE BLOCK BARN, SAME TIME
A tearing. He thought he heard a tearing sound. A crack not unlike the sharp snap of cardboard when the staples are torn from the walls of a box. Coming, he thought, from the dragon pen.
Snap!
Yes. There it was again. He tilted the lantern, swinging amber light deeper into the barn. The hooded creature was half in shadow. But half was all that Brother Rufus needed to see.
A wing! Heaven help us! A wing extending! The mailing tape ripped through, torn along the ventral line of the chest! As the full extent of his horror gelled, the dragon struck out fitfully, crashing the wing into a stack of hay bales. The wire binding them was sliced in an instant, severed so fiercely the ends coiled into zinging pigtails. The dry air filled with flying grass seed, topped by the dragon’s unearthly squeal. Brother Rufus threw his lantern aside, bolted for the courtyard, and screamed for help.
The dragon, Grockle, still growing in strength, yanked on his neck chain, straining it taut. On the third time he did this, he caused a small movement in the purlin above. The ancient timber, stout but riddled with wood-boring insects, cracked at its center and pulled into a v. With another wild tug the purlin snapped and the chain flew clear, lashing its captive with a clatter of steel. Rafters creaked. A rotted timber fell, shattering on the anvil of the cobbled floor. Near to it burned the abandoned lantern, its yellow light flaring as the oil it drew upon spilled from its well. Though unsafe, there was no real danger of combustion. The lamp lay on stone, with little loose straw around. It would take a deliberate act of arson to cause a blaze of unstoppable proportions.
But that was precisely what was in Brother Vincent’s mind.
The squirrel had done him such good service. Now it would undertake one last mission. Drag the lantern into the straw and set the stable block alight. Then would come the final proof that the dragon, Grockle, was a savior to them all.
Lying out, in his state of heightened consciousness, he pictured the squirrel clamping its teeth around the lantern top. But it was hot, and the little creature squeaked and jumped back. The lid of the lantern, loosened by the bite, fell away slightly from its glass walls. A naked tongue of flame poked out.
Vincent’s eyeballs flickered under their lids. Another way. He must find another way. This thought line was too ambitious for the squirrel. Perhaps if it laid a bridge of straw between the hay bales and the —
“Wake!”
The word fell into his mind like a pebble breaking the waters of perception. The squirrel, the dragon, all disappeared, replaced by a rushing sense of fear.
“Wake!” the voice commanded again.
A concentrated force of heat above his eyes. When he opened them, he felt a hand on his forehead and stared up into the face of death. Its colorless mouth gave a smug little twitch. “It’s over, brother,” the thin lips said.
Erasure. Darkness. The blades of wickedness cutting and stirring his memories into sludge. Brother Vincent, Arthur, physicist, monk, cried out and clutched at the corners of his mind, as voices elsewhere were shouting for sanctuary. The dragon is empowered and breaking loose! God in his mercy, save us all!
But the loudest shout of all was that of Brother Peter. Scrawny of body, burly of lung: “FIRE! FIRE IN THE STABLE! FIRE!”
Brother Darius, hearing it, snatched away his hand. He scowled at Brother Vincent, as though the man had outwitted him.
“Fire?” called the abbot, hurrying out of the cell.
Brother Bernard rushed to Brother Vincent’s side. He pored over the body, feeling for a pulse. “Is he revived?”
“He is empty. No longer any threat.”
“Threat? To whom?”
FIRE! FIRE!
“Lead me to this hybrid dragon.”
“What are you?” said Bernard, standing in his path. “What have you done to this man?!”
In a move so swift Bernard didn’t see it happen, Darius clamped a hand across the fat monk’s forehead. “Well, well. Even you have been an instrument in this comedy.”
Grimacing, Bernard sank to his knees.
“Now,” said Darius, leaving him gasping. “Now the finale begins.”
By the time Brother Bernard had regained his senses, the barn in which the baby dragon had been chained was already a mass of crackling flame. He arrived to see cinders spitting high into the air, and smoke, coaxed by the falling drizzle, winding eastward toward the sea. The large outer wall was standing proud, charring rapidly at its base. But the lower one closest to the monastery itself had begun to fall inward, drawing down the roof. It was here that the abbot had positioned the brethren, with long poles, planking, anything they could find with which to push the wall in farther, to foil any chance of the fire migrating. With a grinding crack! a row of panels went over. Rafters buckled. The roof caved in. The stench of melting roofing felt tarred the air. A great crown of debris, sparks, and ash erupted from the ground and blew back in a cluster. Several brothers cried out or dropped to their knees as the embers caught on their clothing and skin. But in contrast to the wretched, piercing screeches issuing from the burning pyramid of wood, their shouts were merely whispers on a distant wind. Bernard’s stomach squeezed itself out like a sponge.
The creature, the dragon, was trapped in the blaze.
“How was this started?” he cried, falling down. He looked through the smoke at the blackened faces. Brother Malcolm was tottering, exhausted, through the debris. He was covering his ears to block out the screeches.
“Who started this?” Bernard shouted again. He struggled up and pulled Brother Malcolm around. “Who set it on fire?” He shook the man hard.
“It was escaping,” Malcolm mumbled. “I … there was a lantern …”
Graaarrrrrkkkk!
“Brother, what have I done?”
“Pray for it!” said Bernard, making Malcolm kneel. “Pray for it!” he screamed, running to the others, purging them with swipes of an illusory stick. “It feels pain! It cries out! It has a soul. PRAY!”
And one by one, each brother, including a dazed and despectacled Abbot Hugo, settled to his knees and began to beseech his Heavenly Father to send this creature to a better place.
Only one, Brother Darius, did not join in. He was looking back an impossible distance, beyond the gardens and the rowan trees, toward the jetty where another small boat had just docked a passenger. A young man, a civilian, was sprinting along the stage, clearly heading for the source of the blaze. Brother Darius turned his face to the sky, the color blue running through his sharp gray eyes. There, a far greater distance away, the fire star was starting to reach its zenith. Less than a day before the portal opened fully. He returned his gaze to the dragon and the monks.
With a sudden inward rush of air, the fire consuming the barn went out.
Startled gasps cut short the prayers. The brethren looked to one another for guidance.
A wisp or two of smoke twizzled out of the pyre. Blistered, shriveled relics of timber cracked and shifted, finding new levels. The shoulder of the dragon poked through the mess. Bloodless. Gray. Like solid stone.
Then, as the rain increased a little and the dying wood hissed and the earth around it fizzed, a shade of green rose through the dragon’s shoulder, forming into a pattern of scales. A breath of movement rippled the wood.
Then the mighty wings came out.
Fragments, some as large as untouched rafters, flew out sideways in both directions. What did not strike the flesh of human skin, splintered windows, charcoaled walls, or simply came to rest in the open fields.
The dragon rose. Its body, flushed with its newborn energy, grew in girth again by the length of a scale. The manacles around its feet and neck burst like useless paper hoops.
Brother Bernard, one of the few uninjured, watched it shake away the last flakes of wreckage and turn its eyes on the screaming humans. “Please,” he begged, “we only want to help you.”
The dragon snorted a sulfurous blast, powerful enough to knock Bernard over.
“Don’t hurt me,” he begged, scrabbling in the dirt. “God have mercy. Please, don’t hurt me.”
The eyes slid, the wings gyred. The creature, head back, roared at the rain. And where there had once been water, there was steam.
“Grockle!” cried a voice. “Grockle, it’s me!”
But by then the young dragon had taken to the sky. And the only further signs of fire after that were those short blasts flowing out of its throat as it banked instinctively toward the north.
62 DAVID AND DARIUS
Arthur? Which of you is Arthur?”
The young man, David Rain, skidded to a halt, squinting through the smoke at the bodies and the wreckage.
“Help me!” croaked a voice nearby. Brother Cedric, blood pouring from a wound to his ear, gripped David’s knee with the strength of a monkey.
David knelt and tore the sleeve of Cedric’s habit, using the cloth as a makeshift pad. “What happened here?” he asked, laying Cedric down with his palm holding the bandage in place.
But Cedric, delirious with pain and dread, could only gaze at the sky and burble, “God bless you….”
David left him and ran toward Brother Ferdinand, who was limping to the aid of Abbot Hugo and others. “Please, help me. I must find Brother Arthur.”
Ferdinand, his long chin blackened by smoke, shook his head and almost fell. “No one here goes by that name.”
David blew a raindrop off his nose. “One of you must know —?” Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a smaller, tubbier monk.
“Are you …? Are you David?”
“Yes.”
Brother Bernard closed his eyes and almost wept. He interlaced his fingers and bit a knuckle. “Then everything Arthur told me is true.”
David put a hand out to stop the man shaking. “Where is he?”
“Come, I will take you to him.”
“You will not,” said a voice.
Standing in the smoke was a bald-headed man, his hands resting in the sleeves of his habit.
“Who are you?” said David, aware that Brother Bernard was melting away as though to clear the ground for some kind of duel.
“You command the clay figures,” Darius said. “You are a friend of dragons.”
David looked the man up and down. “You’re Fain,” he whispered. But nothing like the one G’reth had brought back. An overwhelming aura of deep malevolence surrounded this man, this shell of a man, perhaps. Then came another shock. From out of his cowl, a small figure fluttered into the air. David gave a start of recognition: Gretel. “What’s she —?” He stopped himself. “You’ve been to the house.”
Gretel, annoyed that he’d spoken out, flicked her tail and waved a paw across her mouth.
Darius took a step forward.
David instinctively took a step back, a long cold horror seeping through him. “If you’ve hurt Liz or the dragons, I’ll kill you.”
“You are not capable,” Darius snarled. “Nothing on this torpid planet could move at the same vibration as the Fain.”
“Why are you here?” David asked it, suddenly aware that he had not been deserted after all. Bernard had circled around behind the gray monk and was picking up a heavy piece of wood from the pyre.
“To cleanse this world of dragons.”
“Why, when they’re dying out on your homeworld?”
T
he human lips puckered into a smile. “You have been making connections, human.”
David stroked the wet hair off his forehead. “I’ve got powerful connections, trust me.”
Darius advanced again. “The shaman bear and the sibyl I have dealt with. All that remains are you, the clay creatures, and the hybrid dragon.”
David glanced into the sky. There was no sign of Grockle. “Why didn’t you kill him while you had the chance?”
“The hybrid will go to the island,” said Darius. “When the portal opens, he will call all dragonkind to his side. There is a pure fire hidden somewhere in the north. Its reading is diffuse, but the hybrid will find it.”
David leveled his gaze. “I wouldn’t bank on it.”
For a small man, Bernard had remarkable strength. Though the skin of his palms was blistering with the heat, he brought a burned rafter down with such crushing force on the gray monk’s head that the man appeared to be driven slightly into the ground. As he buckled, Bernard roared and swung at him again. Darius went over and fell, mouth open, hard to the cobbles.
Gretel immediately flew to David and pushed her flowers right under his nose.
Hrrr! she went. Don’t argue, just sniff!
David took in the scent and staggered back, blinking.
“Evil,” Bernard panted, shedding tears of despair, crying out as if confession was all that was left to him. He threw the murderous rafter aside. “I felt it in his touch. He damaged Arthur. Come, I will take you to his cell.”
But then it was David who was crying out suddenly. He dropped to his knees, pitching forward.
“What ails you?” said Bernard, reaching out, and was immediately thrown aside by a force which left him sprawling on his back.
David scraped at the weeds between the cobbles. The world pulsed and came back tainted blue. The Fain was inside him, seeking knowledge.
The clay figures. Why were you chosen as their master?
A trail of vomit left David’s mouth.
What do you know about the dragon-made stone?