Jasper Fforde - The Last Dragonslayer

‘“Paltry human!” scoffed Earthwise, the elected head of the Dragon Council. “Watch this!”

‘But try as he might, not even the finest magic of the strongest Dragon could turn their comrade back from stone again. Nor could they even attack Shandar, as he had woven a force of electricity between himself and the Dragons, and anyone who came close got their claws zapped. When they had calmed down, Shandar changed the stone Dragon back to flesh again and said:

‘“You have seen my word of death. With it you know that my word of life will be true also. Men will not be puny mortals for ever. I can see a time when the cannonballs they annoy you with now will be even more powerful; great land creatures made of iron will crawl up to your lairs and blast you with cannons more powerful than you can possibly imagine. After that I see winged creatures of steel flying faster than sound itself. I can see all this in the future and I say to you now that peace needs to be made with the humans.”

‘Earthwise looked at him, a wisp of smoke escaping out of his nostrils and floating to the roof of the cave. Earthwise could see parts of the future too, and he knew that Shandar spoke the truth. They talked long into the night and then, the following morning, Earthwise bore Shandar to the seventy-eight ambassadors, who, much fearful of such close proximity to the Dragon, listened eagerly to the plan that had been drawn up. It was very simple. The Dragons were to have lands given over to them and they would be kept stocked with sheep and cows for the Dragons to eat. Each Dragonland would be surrounded by boundary stones protected by a strong magic that would vaporise a human if he or she tried to pass. For their part the Dragons agreed to give up eating people, stop torching villages and to leave townsfolk’s cattle and sheep well alone. The sole remaining Dragonslayer would be retained to keep an eye on things to ensure fairness, and if a Dragon transgressed the laws, the Dragonslayer would mete out any punishment.

‘And so it was agreed. The Dragonlands were established, stocked with livestock and marked with boundary stones. The last Dragonslayer was re-educated in her new role as peacemaker, Shandar took his twenty dray-weights of gold, and vanished. And that,’ concluded Mother Zenobia, ‘was the story of the Dragonpact.’

‘And what about the Mighty Shandar?’ I asked, never having believed that any story really had an end.

‘That was four hundred years ago. The Mighty Shandar retired to Crete with twenty dray-weights of gold, and spent the rest of his days conducting research. The Dragons’ numbers have been diminishing ever since. In the intervening years all but one of the Dragons have died of old age. As soon as they did, the marker stones that surrounded the Dragons’ territory lost their power, allowing men to reclaim the lands for themselves. Since Dragon M’foszki died eleven years ago, Maltcassion, who still resides in the Dragonlands not twenty miles from here, is the last of his breed. When he goes, the Dragon will be no more.’

‘What about—?’

But Mother Zenobia had vanished into a grey mist; abrupt teleportation was just one of her many skills. I looked behind me and could see her rematerialise inside the dining room. It must have been sausages, her favourite.

‘Did you log that as a B1-7G, Bernice?’ I asked her novice, who had been sitting close by. ‘We wouldn’t want to have an incident .’

She smiled.

‘I keep a close eye on the old sorceress, Jenny, don’t you worry.’

With my mind full of Dragons and pacts and Shandars and slayers and marker stones and lunch, which I had forgotten to eat, I drove up to the Dragonlands near a picnic spot I knew at Dorstone. I parked up and walked across the turf to the humming marker stones that encircled the lands at twenty-foot intervals and looked about. Tents and caravans had sprung up everywhere as word had got about that Maltcassion was about to go belly-up. Small groups of people talked to each other while seated on folding chairs, sipping tea from thermos flasks. Everyone seemed to have a good supply of tent pegs and string with which to make their claim, and with the Dragonlands covering an area of almost 350 square miles, a lot was at stake. Several enterprising souls had even parked their Land Rovers pointing in towards the lands, ready to bounce into the interior and claim as large an area as they could before anyone else.

As Mother Zenobia had said, the last Dragon to die had been M’foszki, the Great Serpent of Bedwyn, whose lair was on what was then the Marlborough Downs. Quite suddenly the marker stones stopped humming and a daring lad named Bors stepped across into the Dragonlands, walked the empty hills until he entered the Dragon’s lair, a deep underground cave worn smooth by M’foszki’s hard skin. There he found a lot of cattle and sheep bones, some jewels and gold and a very large and dead Dragon. Bors took the Dragon’s head-jewel and swapped it for a handsome townhouse. As for the Marlborough Dragonlands, every square inch was claimed within twenty-four hours; a rare pair of Lesser-spotted Bworks were shot and stuffed by a passing hunter, and the land is now used for farming.

I stared into the empty Dragonlands, then at the people who were still arriving, following the call of cash as if in some deep-rooted herding instinct. The milk of human kindness was turning sour.

Tiger Prawns was in the lobby when I got back, and I asked him why he wasn’t manning the telephone as he had been told.

‘Very funny,’ he said.

‘I see you’ve met Patrick of Ludlow,’ I replied, trying to stifle a giggle, for Tiger was thirty feet up in the shabby atrium, perched high upon the chandelier. ‘How long have you been up there?’

‘Half an hour,’ he answered crossly, ‘with only a lot of dust and Transient Moose for company.’

‘You’ll have to suffer a few jokes in good humour,’ I told him, ‘and consider yourself lucky that you have witnessed both passive and active levitation in the same week.’

‘Which was which?’

‘Carpeteering is active ; heavy lifting is passive . Could you feel the difference?’

He crossed his arms and sulked.

‘No.’

‘Did your fillings ache when he lifted you?’

‘I don’t have any fillings,’ he replied grumpily.

‘They would if you did,’ I said as I walked off towards the Kazam offices. ‘I’ll ask Patrick to get you down.’

Our heavy lifter was eating biscuits in the Avon Suite when I arrived. Patrick of Ludlow was a year shy of his fortieth birthday, and was amiable, a little simple and quite odd looking: like most sorcerers who made their living using passive levitation, he had muscles mainly where he shouldn’t—that is to say, grouped around his ankles, wrists, toes, fingers and the back of his head.

‘How did the clamping removals go?’ I asked.

‘Eight, Miss Jennifer, which brings my score to four thousand, seven hundred and four. The most popular car colour for people who don’t care where they park is silver; the least popular, black.’

‘Was it Wizard Moobin who told you to put Tiger up there?’

I knew he wouldn’t have done it on his own.

‘Yes, Miss Jennifer. Was that wrong of me?’

‘No, it was just a joke. But get him down now, yes?’

He waved his hand in the direction of the lobby, and a minute or two later Tiger walked back into the office with a scowl etched upon his forehead.

‘Patrick, this is Tiger Prawns. Tiger is the seventh foundling, here to help me run the place. Tiger, this is Patrick of Ludlow, our heavy lifter, who was told to put you up there by a wizard or wizards unknown, and is thus blameless. You will be friends and not hold a grudge.’