The Twelve Dragons of Albion

by Mark Hayden

  I signalled for her to stop recording. ‘What has happened?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been locked in the car, don’t forget.’

  ‘Welshfire got her banquet of human flesh, but it was Iorwen on the menu. If she was your friend, I’m afraid I’m not sorry. Adaryn’s buggered off. Rhein’s going to release the Dragon.’

  She looked up the track, not the hill. I’m guessing she wasn’t a fan of Iorwen. ‘It should never have come to this.’

  ‘Get in and adjust the seat. I’m going to empty the boot.’

  With the bags in a heap, I opened the driver’s door and said, ‘Hand over your Artefacts. I’ll look after them.’

  She hesitated, then hooped them off her neck. ‘What are you going to do?’ she said.

  ‘What I always do. Try not to get killed.’

  ‘Don’t let Rhein do anything stupid. Help him if you can.’

  Aah. It made sense now. As well as a passion for Dragons, the Druid with the cornflower eyes had a passion for the Hunter. I put my hand on the door. ‘I got in a mess once. I was given a second chance. Don’t blow yours. Now, hurry up.’

  I slammed the door, and she pulled away, down the track and into the woods. I watched the brake lights until she disappeared around the bend, then I picked up the bags and trudged back to the Volkswagen.

  When I emerged from the trees, sunshine bathed the clearing and the old cottage. The storm had passed over, and there would be an hour’s light before night descended on the valley. The Watch Captains would be gathering in Bristol at this very minute.

  I stowed the gear in the Volkswagen and took the keys. My bones ached, I was soaked from the knees down, and tired in every muscle, but Vicky was alive and on her way to hospital. I’d take that for now.

  I lit a cigarette and turned to follow the track of the storm as it moved east towards the MADOC Grove and the wake they were holding for Surwen. The cumulonimbus rain clouds were thick and black over the hills, and towering above them was the cirrus anvil. Lightning flared from the bottom, and a light winked on the anvil above. Very end of the world. I dropped my cigarette and got back on the bike.

  My plan was very simple, and consisted mostly of staying out of sight until I knew the cavalry were on their way, then retreating. I’ll call that Plan A. With a bit of luck, it would take hours for Rhein to clear the stones from Welshfire’s prison and release the Dragon.

  There was plenty of gas in the quad bike, so I opted to explore first. I took a middle way, avoiding the paths to both the chimney and the buildings. Less vulnerable to surprise attack, but much more precarious – I was driving along the shoulder of a hill that had just been soaked by a month’s rain. The bike’s fat tyres held, just, with one alarming near slide as I crested the ridge. I dismounted with some relief.

  Perhaps my luck was changing. A dry stone wall appeared and gave me the perfect cover to survey the target area. From left to right, I observed the stream, the spot where we’d resuscitated Vicky, the track, and then the buildings. A row of three cottages hunkered down against the wind. My eye was going to move on until I realised that they weren’t derelict.

  I raised the binoculars for a closer look and saw that they were in a good state of repair, even sporting curtains at the windows. Work had been done on the structure as well, and two of the three front doors had been bricked up to create a single building. I lowered my binoculars and the sense of unease I’d felt ever since we’d left the public road reasserted itself.

  These cottages couldn’t be newer than the 1920s, surely? Yet they were missing on the paper maps, as was the substantial track and bridge over the Tawe. This whole property had been Occulted, and it had been hidden for years. Decades. Who by? What for?

  Surwen’s phone, Gwyddo’s statement and Harry’s actions all pointed to six members of the Brotherhood of the Dragon, so who was in that Range Rover? And who had constructed the Ley lines? I don’t like loose ends, especially when I’m dealing with people who have crossed the line to admit lethal violence to their operations. I rubbed my chin and filed it for later.

  Behind and to the right of the cottages was a complex of features and structures that took me a while to decode. Right at the back was the bite I’d seen taken out of the hillside where Welshmen had gouged the rock for limestone. Closer to the cottages was a disused lime kiln, and then some old buildings where the slaked lime was stored and which were now dedicated to farming. There were two empty pens in front of what would have been the lambing shed, if the lambs and their mothers hadn’t been fed to a hungry Dragon.

  There were several signs of the Brotherhood at work. First, the area in front of the lime kiln had been flattened and bedded to become a construction site. The heavy plant was gone, but two trailers were parked neatly to the side. Then there was the black Volvo XC90. What is it with Mages and their 4x4s? What I couldn’t see was a quad bike or the bottom of the quarry. Time to move uphill.

  Another few metres to the north east and I could see everything. From my reading and conversations, I knew that the main entrance to a Dragon’s nest always slopes down from the surface, and with Myfanwy’s information, I knew why. When Welshfire started burning her way through the logs blocking the tunnel, the heat and smoke would need to rise up, and the main chimney would switch to being the vent supplying the oxygen. Putting an airtight seal on the tunnel was a good way of keeping the Dragon penned in.

  I had expected a pile of rocks, and that’s what the ancient Druids had no doubt used. The modern Druids had built a short brick extension to the tunnel, then brought in a load of ready mixed concrete and cast a huge rectangular plug. Rhein wouldn’t be getting through that in a hurry. Right on cue, he appeared from one of the buildings on his bike, pulling a trailer with a compressor and a pneumatic drill. If he used that to attack the concrete barrier, he’d be there for a month.

  He dropped the trailer by the mouth of the tunnel and drove the bike away a short distance. There was a big sack on the back of the bike, incongruously pink. Incongruous because it contained ANFO – Ammonium Nitrate / Fuel Oil, the world’s most commonly used industrial explosive. Oh. That would make his job easier. Nevertheless…

  Even with the explosives, it would take a long time to drill the block. I focused on the concrete plug. It was already drilled. He must have brought the drill to clear out any blockages. Things could move a lot faster than I’d planned for. I took a close look at Rhein as he bent over the compressor. His woad sigils were covered by a boiler suit, and around his waist was a toolbelt. I lowered the binoculars, took in the overall layout of the site and revised my Plan A, adding a Plan B just in case. Plan A was risky, but not too risky, and all in a day’s work for a Captain of the King’s Watch. Plan B was another matter.

  I drove down, round and stopped while the hillside still hid me from the buildings. I walked from there, slowly, until I could observe the targets from a safe distance. There was no sign of life anywhere except in the quarry, where Rhein was attaching the air hose to the pneumatic drill. When he stuck on a pair of ear defenders, I jogged round the cottages to the back door, the main door on any farm that I’ve ever visited.

  I’d seen no smoke from the chimneys, and the range inside the farmhouse kitchen was cold and empty. There was, however, a fan heater and kettle, and plenty of signs of recent habitation. I was sorely tempted by the thought of hot tea. I closed my eyes, and I could feel the heat of the mug against my icicle fingers. Surely there would be time for that? I dug my fingernails into my palms and opened my eyes to stare at the table. Neatly piled up were the Druids’ street clothes, bags and bits. I lifted the keys to the Volvo, snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and dodged outside.

  I may not have any magickal bullets, but I still carried my mundane Sig handgun. I got as close to the quad bike as I dared, and waited for Rhein to get his compressor going. When he put the drill into the first hole, I fired three shots into his bike. The first two took out a tyre each. The third went into the instrument panel. It might h
it something electric, it might not. There was no point shooting the explosives because you need a primary and a secondary detonator to set that stuff off.

  I ducked back behind the shed when the drill stopped. I watched him giving about twenty seconds attention to each hole, and when he started up again, I jogged back to my own vehicle and took a good look at the surrounding countryside.

  The stream had swollen quickly after the rains, and was now quite a torrent. A small path led to where to where the stream broadened and became more shallow. I took a closer look and saw why. Someone, probably with help from a JCB, had dug out the bank and laid slate blocks in the stream bed, making a useful fording point. Even with today’s rain, the quad bike should get across quite happily.

  Beyond the ford, the land rose more gently. It would finish by meeting the main moor up top, and presumably re-join the mundane world of long distance footpaths at some point. Down here, down in the Occulted valley, there was a mixture of marshy leas and stands of trees, and wouldn’t you know it, there was a Ley line running under the ford, the continuation of the one that I’d tapped to help Myfanwy save Vicky. The oddest thing was that instead of running towards the National line across the Tawe, it came down from somewhere up that hill.

  The compressor was still running in the quarry, so I got out my yew rod and tried to dowse while driving the bike. It wasn’t easy, and twice I lost the run of the line before I rounded a knoll and came to a slope too steep to risk the bike. I killed the engine and dowsed my way up the bank. Over the lip, my dowsing rod went crackers, and I flinched away from the Lux up there.

  On top of the mini-hill was a stone circle, or what you’d get if you told a mad Victorian landscape gardener to make you a stone circle. The twelve standing stones were a hazy green in colour, veined and stippled in bronze, and as alien to this valley as the slate bed of the ford. In the centre was not an altar but a pillar of polished anthracite, and it was gently smoking.

  Beyond the circle, the land dipped again, and only then did I realise that this was not a natural feature. This stone circle had been planted on a man-made hill, and that pillar of anthracite had been driven into it to tap a primary source of magickal power.

  I approached the ring of stones carefully, spreading my senses to check for Wards. I don’t know why: I’ve never seen one myself, and I wouldn’t know what one was like until I triggered it. I passed the line of the stones, and the distant sound of the compressor stopped suddenly, not with a cough and splutter, but like someone pressing the mute button. That was weird, but weirder still was the song which replaced it. Through the soles of my boots, I heard a male voice singing in Welsh, accompanied by a graceful harp.

  The words were beyond me, but I know lamentation when I hear it, and when I closed my eyes, I could even hear the acoustics of where the song had been sung. It wasn’t a siren-song, it wasn’t rooting me to the spot with magick, so I decided to take a closer look at the anthracite pillar and put down my yew rod.

  I picked it straight up when my jacket and all my clothes started to smolder and the song was replaced by a warcry: Die, you Saxon bastard.

  I bowed low towards the pillar and stepped smartly backwards and out of the circle before the blessing inherent in Harry’s yew branch stopped working. I checked my garments for combustion (especially down below. Certain areas had got way too hot). Satisfied that I wasn’t on fire, I turned back towards the farm because I couldn’t hear the compressor any more.

  The mound was a good vantage point, and there was a nice grass ledge outside the circle where I could sit down and check on Rhein’s progress. The binoculars revealed that he had finished his drilling, and that he was packing away the compressor. When he slipped off the ear defenders, I took out the radio that Adaryn had left on the hillside and pressed Send.

  ‘Clarke to Rhein. Clarke to Rhein. Over.’

  Through the binoculars, I saw him duck behind the compressor and take a good look round the quarry before picking up his walkie talkie to respond.

  ‘Adaryn said you’d run away.’

  I waited a second to give him time to follow protocol, then continued. ‘Exactly what did she tell you, Rhein? Over.’

  He laughed. ‘She said that the Blasu Diwethaf was complete, that your sidekick was dead and that they were getting out of there. She said you’d run off and left Vicky to die.’ He paused. ‘Over, Captain Clarke.’

  ‘Some of that was true. Adaryn did stop Vicky’s heart, but she was the one who ran away. Myfanwy resuscitated Vicky and she’s surrendered in exchange for a reduced sentence. They’re both in Swansea by now, I should think. Did you honestly think I’d abandon my partner? And it’s Squadron Leader Clarke, if you’re being formal. Over.’

  ‘I’d believe anything of a neo-Nazi thug. I don’t care what happened to Meadowknickers or your pikey pal, if I’m honest. The Blasu Diwethaf has been completed, and soon the hunt will start. If you stick around, I’ll hunt you down, too. Over.’

  I had been planning to be gentle with him until his crack about Myfanwy and Vicky. That was out of order. ‘If I’m telling the truth about Vicky, Rhein, who do you think completed the human part of the Blasu Diwethaf? When you confront that Dragon, do you think it will smell of your mother’s perfume? Over.’

  The radio stayed mute for a moment, then burst into Welsh. Twice, he said something that sounded like a plea for Iorwen to contact him. I still didn’t feel sorry for him.

  ‘You’re going to die slowly for that, Clarke. My mother is safely out of the way with Adaryn, and she’ll be glad to hear what I’m going to do to you. Over.’

  ‘Two things, Rhein. First, a question: did Adaryn say We’re leaving or did she say I’m leaving? Secondly, I’ve got the keys to your Volvo, and your bike’s a goner. This is your last chance to surrender. Over.’

  ‘The last thing you hear will be in Welsh, Clarke, just before I kill you. Over and out.’

  I watched him toss the radio away and jog to his bike. When he saw the deflated tyres, he sprinted across the yard to the farmhouse. He emerged a few seconds later, craning his neck in circles to try and spot me. With the setting sun at my back, there would be no reflections from the binocular lenses, so I carried on watching as he dragged the sack of ANFO pellets to the concrete block.

  The ground below me was perfect for what I had in mind for Plan B, if it came to it, and the extent of my preparation for Plan A was to move the quad bike beyond the Druid’s mound so that my escape route was open. After that, it was just a question of waiting for the fun to start. I took the chance for a smoke while he rammed home the pellets and sealed the blasting caps. It didn’t take long.

  26 — Desserts

  The rumble through the ground was faint. The sound of the blast was huge. When the dust had settled, I could see what the brick extension was for – to stop the rubble blocking the mouth of the tunnel. You don’t want to be clearing up when there’s a Dragon on the way.

  Rhein marched out of the compound with his spear held high as wisps of smoke emerged from the tunnel. I did wonder at his strategy at first, because a bright blue Druid with a seven foot spear is quite easy to spot against the winter landscape. And then he cleared the buildings, squatted down and rubbed the sigils on his arm. The blue designs swirled, and he was gone, completely concealed, like a cartoon chameleon. I lowered the binoculars. No wonder he’d been able to ambush us by the old cottage – I might have walked right past him and not noticed.

  I stared at the spot where he’d disappeared, and tried to use my Sight to detect his magick. Useless. Then he moved, and for a second his black pants were visible against the grey hillside. With his powers, I’d have hunted naked. Perhaps he didn’t want his mother to see him.

  The smoke from the tunnel was dense now, and I weighed up my options. I’d hoped to keep track of Rhein, and his ability to fade away like that was a complicating factor. Would he come looking for me and abandon the Wyrm hunt? Given that those radios had a range of over a mile and I could
be hiding anywhere, he probably wouldn’t risk it.

  Adaryn had said there was enough wood in that tunnel to keep Welshfire busy for several hours. Good. My Plan A was to scoot over the hill at six o’clock, when the cavalry would be well on their way to rendezvous with Helen Davies.

  I was reaching for my fags when Plan A went up in smoke: with a roar I could hear across the valley, Welshfire emerged from the tunnel and took her first look at the world. Shit.

  First she squeezed her head out of the tunnel, then she used her chest to push the rock aside, and finally her back legs and tail emerged. The Wyrm Welshfire was as black as the anthracite pillar behind me, as keen to sniff the air as a hunting dog, and looked nothing like any dragon you’ve seen on telly.

  I scanned the beast carefully, and I saw what Surwen had tried and failed to achieve with Moley. At some point in the past, long long ago in the past, some god, some Mage or some Spirit had created the race of Dragons, but they hadn’t started with a blank piece of parchment: they’d started with a large reptile, probably a relative of the alligator. Mother Nature can be twisted and shaped, but she’s very hard to replace.

  Welshfire’s head was slightly tapered, but there was no long sinuous neck behind it, and no sleek body either. Her chest was bulbous and broad, because this creature was going to fly, and to fly you need muscles to power your wings. Reptiles have four legs, and the front two had been stretched to thin remnants of limbs to act as the framework for leathery skin. Once clear of the rubble, she stretched her wing-arms to give her some balance, and I saw that there simply wasn’t enough surface area on her wing membranes for flight. Yet. Then she stood up.