Alys Clare - Land of the Silver Dragon

Gurdyman told me of other ways in which the Norse mariners had used the world around them to navigate. Over many generations of observation, they built up a knowledge of the winds: if it was warm and wet, it blew from the south-west; if it was cold and wet, from the north-east. They learned to utilize the length of daylight as an indicator of how far north they were. They observed bird behaviour. They studied the tides. There was more, much more, and it was all based on sound common sense.

Then Gurdyman’s voice changed — I know it did, I heard it — and he moved on to tell me of things that were nothing to do with common sense at all.

‘The Norse ships frequently carried a dragon’s head,’ he said. Fleetingly an image formed in my mind — something I had seen, in a dream, perhaps? Then it was gone. ‘But the dragon was a creature of the sea,’ Gurdyman went on, ‘and drew his power from the water element. Approaching land, the figurehead had to be removed, for the people on the shore feared that the mighty dragon would offend the good spirits of the earth.’ He leaned closer. ‘The mariners believed a ship found her own way home,’ he said, very softly. ‘Their skills helped, of course, but ultimately it was up to the craft herself, and a powerful dragon’s head on the prow would cleave a way through the mists, the storms, the flooding tide and the howling winds and bring the ship safe to port.’

Then the fleeting image clarified.

I saw a ship. It was a long, sleek craft, flying through the spray and the wave-tops like an arrow shot from a bow. Her square sail was stretched taught with the wind that drove her, and the dragon on her prow breathed flame and smoke from its flared nostrils. The dragon — or perhaps it was the ship — spoke a name: Malice-striker .

I became aware of Gurdyman’s voice. It seemed he spoke more loudly, as if calling me back from wherever it was I had strayed. It seemed that now he was quoting the words of someone else; perhaps from one of the sagas of long ago.

‘… and the heavens were heavy with snow-bearing cloud,’ he intoned. ‘The king sent his men to search the skies for a clear patch, so that they might see the Sun and note his position, but no break in the clouds was to be found. Then the king summoned his steersman, and commanded him to tell him where the Sun was, and the steersman took his stone, and, putting it to his eye, stared up at the angry skies. Then, lo! through the power of the sunstone he could see wherefrom came the Sun’s light. Bowing to the king, he said, Behold, Lord, the invisible Sun is no longer hidden , and he indicated to the king where the Sun rode, high above the snow clouds.’

I was there. I was standing beside the king — a tall, broad, burly figure; bearded, a gold circlet on his long hair, wrapped in heavy furs — and I felt his power and his majesty coming off him like the heat from a fire. I saw his steersman, kneeling before him; in his hands he held a square-cut crystal, translucent, softly shining. A deep voice said, solstenen .

‘Sunstone,’ I whispered.

I felt strange. My head was light, as if I hadn’t eaten for a long time. I stared around the familiar little courtyard, but it seemed to be obscured by a wet, cold mist that swirled up out of some unknown, dread source.

Through the mist I thought I heard Gurdyman’s voice; at least, I believed it was his. The voice spoke of a talisman; an object so sacred, so secret, that few even suspected its existence. It came from far away and its powers were legion.

Its powers were terrifying .

It sharpened inner sight; it both permitted entry to the unknown realms and provided protection from their perils. It gave access to …

Abruptly the voice ceased, as if a thick, heavy door had been closed on the speaker. My head spun and, although I tried to cry out, I was dumb. Then I fell forward on to the table, my head cushioned by my arms, and everything went dark.

Gurdyman sent me to bed early. It was, I suppose, a way of acknowledging that he might have pushed me a bit too far in the day’s instruction. While I’m delighted that he treats me not as a fragile female but as someone desperate to learn and ready for any challenge, at times I feel it would be nice if he remembered that we aren’t all as tough and experienced as he is. In fact, I doubt if anyone is, with the exception of Hrype.

I hadn’t wanted to eat, but Gurdyman insisted I cleared my bowl of stew before I went up the ladder to my room. When, at last, I took off my boots and my over gown and lay beneath the covers, I was so exhausted that I fell asleep almost immediately.

I am dreaming. I see a tall, broad, burly figure, no more than a dark outline, on the edge of vision. When I turn to face it — him — there’s nothing there.

I’m in a long, narrow passage. Outside? Within a building? There is no way of knowing. I look up, searching for a ceiling or the night sky, but all I can see is darkness. Whatever is hunting for me is right behind me. I spin round to look and I can’t make it out . I sense hands, long-fingered, reaching out for me. The flesh of my back chills and contracts, as if in terrified anticipation of the touch that must surely come. Suddenly I hear a noise … it’s a thin, whistling sound, almost like a signal … one predator calling to another?

I stifle a moan. They must not know I am there. But then I hear a series of slow thumps, very near.

They have found me.

Then I am thrust abruptly into wakefulness.

Gurdyman was bending over me, his laboured, whistling breathing loud in my ear. He said, very softly, ‘Get out of bed, Lassair, and come with me. We must hide.’

I did as he commanded, grabbing my shawl off the bed and wrapping it tightly round me. Gurdyman preceded me down the ladder, puffing hard, his feet making the thump I had heard in my dream. In a moment of perception, I realized then why it is he was happy to let me sleep in the room that was once his: it was becoming just too much of a struggle for him to climb up there.

I knew where we were going. Keeping very close behind him, I followed him along the passage and through the arched entrance to the corridor that leads down to the crypt. I helped him close and bar the door. Suddenly in total darkness, I was glad of his hand, reaching for mine, leading me on down the steps, left, left again, down more steps, and into the crypt.

He guided me to the left of the entrance, turning me. I felt the softness of his cot behind my legs and sank down on to it. I heard him move across the floor, and there was a sudden spark from a flint. Then the blessed light of a candle shone out, sending the darkness back into the corners.

Feeling sick and shivery, I let out the breath I’d been holding. I stared at Gurdyman. He was standing in the middle of the room, quite still, his head slightly on one side. He was listening.

I could hear nothing but the rapid beat of my alarmed heart. Trying to calm myself, I slowed my breathing. You’re safe , I told myself. Nobody can find you down here .

Who was looking for me? It did not even cross my mind that whoever it was could be after Gurdyman: I knew he wasn’t. The giant must have found out that someone from the family he was targeting — my family — had come here to this house, and he had followed. Now he was about to break in, so that he could search through my belongings, just as he had everyone else’s. Well, he’d be disappointed because …

How had Gurdyman known he was coming?

Hard on the heels of that question, bursting across my consciousness like a shooting star, came another: Was Gurdyman’s assumption right?

He was still standing there; still listening.