by Simon Hawke
“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.
CHAPTER TEN
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.
He was an accomplished swordsman and had yet to meet his match, but as good a swordsman as he was, he was even better with a knife. His prowess with knives of all shapes and sizes was legendary. It was said that he could trim the wings of a fairy in flight, which was actually an exaggeration, because fairies could outfly just about anything, from hummingbirds to bees, and Mac had never even attempted the feat. He could, however, draw one of the many knives he wore in his crossed leather bandoliers and hurl it with such lightning speed that the eye could hardly follow it. He unfailingly hit wherever he aimed it, nor was he particular about whether he hit it from the front or from behind. Assassination was assassination, and Mac didn’t allow any sporting sensibilities to interfere with his job. He was, after all, a professional.
Unlike many cheap, lower grade, nonguild assassins, who were often very good at skulking and being generally sneaky, but whose fighting prowess varied widely, Macgregor proudly wore the guild badge of his profession on his brown, rough-cut leather tunic. The badge was a tasteful silver dagger pin, four inches long, two inches wide at the crossguard, with an inch wide blade tapering to a sharp point. He wore it pinned to his breast, over his heart, and it identified him as a member in good standing of the Footpads and Assassins Guild, and anyone who valued their life knew better than to abbreviate that into an acronym.
For a long time, there had been a movement in the Guild to shorten the name simply to Assassins Guild, but many of the old guard professional assassins did not wish to have their occupation demeaned by having a guild called the Assassins Guild that also admitted footpads, however necessary they might be to the profession as auxiliaries. An
alternate proposal had been made to reverse the order of the names, and have it be known as the Assassins and Footpads Guild, but the footpads liked having top billing, and since there were many more footpads than assassins, they kept voting it down at the annual meetings. It was a problem. Assassins who were members of the guild usually circumvented it by referring to themselves as pros, and everyone else, regardless of how gifted they might be, as amateurs.
MacGregor was one of the top pros in his profession. In fact, he was the top pro, having succeeded in assassinating the former top pro, which entitled him to command the highest fees in the guild. However, since Mac was an equal opportunity assassin, he often used a sliding scale, for the benefit of those who couldn’t afford his regular rates. Every now and then, someone came along who really needed killing, and Mac figured it would be a shame to let people like that live simply because their victims could not afford his rates.
In this particular case, though, he was getting his top rate, plus an attractive bonus, and he didn’t even have to kill anyone. All he had to do was find three individuals and deliver them to Warrick the White. The problem was, he didn’t really know who these individuals were. All he had was a general description. One was tall and lean, with brown hair and a long face. One was short and stocky, balding, with a long fringe of light brown hair. And one was of medium height, slim, with red hair and a beard, and he never spoke. Or, perhaps, he very seldom spoke. Granted, this wasn’t much to go on, but Mac knew that the three of them had been together, and were possibly thieves, and they had last been seen at this cottage, where they had delivered a certain apparatus of unknown and possibly magical properties, which they had brought here in a horse-drawn cart and sold to Blackrune 4.
This still wasn’t much in the way of information, but then that was the reason for the attractive bonus. If these three had been easy to find, anyone could have done it. Then there was the fact of Blackrune 4’s mysterious disappearance, and that of his apprentice, as well. MacGregor did not know the reason for these disappearances, but the fact that a sorcerer and his apprentice had vanished without trace shortly after encountering these three suggested that there might be a certain element of danger involved in this assignment. However, Mac liked danger. Almost as much as he liked attractive bonuses.
