Dragon Arcana

by Pierre Pevel

  The captain nodded gravely.

  They had ridden flat out from Paris, with only a brief delay to scout out the terrain and evaluate the enemy’s forces, but now they were running out of time. Once the sun rose, the dracs would be up and about, too.

  La Fargue risked a glance up the hill. They had almost reached the foot of the walls, which had sentries posted along the top. There were some breaches by which they could pass. But to reach them would require a perilous climb.

  Behind them, Laincourt and Marciac waited.

  ‘Captain.’

  La Fargue turned toward Leprat and saw that he was pointing to the landing, down below, lit by lanterns. They enjoyed a good view of the boat and the handful of dracs who were completing preparations for an imminent departure. There was a man on the landing as well: bearded and massive, with an impressive schiavone at his side.

  ‘He’s the dragon,’ said Leprat. ‘The one who attacked us in Mareuil.’

  La Fargue nodded again.

  ‘If we act quickly and effectively,’ he replied, ‘he might not have time to reach the château, after the alarm has been raised …’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘There are four dracs with him. We saw three more guarding the horses at the bottom of the road. So that leaves twelve or thirteen up here.’

  ‘It gives us a chance.’

  ‘Then let’s go!’

  The four men resumed their silent ascent.

  ‘I see three,’ whispered Agnès.

  ‘So do I,’ said Ballardieu. ‘Two near the fire and another one, over there.’

  They lay flat on the grass and were spying on the dracs charged with guarding the horses. One was seated and smoking a pipe near the dying campfire, while the second, lying still, seemed to be asleep. The third one, apart from the others, was supposed to be guarding the horses, but was in fact watching the preparations going on aboard the boat moored at the landing.

  ‘You take care of the sentry, girl?’

  ‘Understood. Be careful.’

  ‘As always.’

  They separated, Ballardieu heading toward the fire and Agnès making a wider detour. She went round the enclosure stealthily, taking pains not to disturb the horses, and approached the drac from behind. He had not moved and continued to gaze in the direction of the lantern-lit pontoon. She was upon in him two quick strides, clamping one hand against his mouth and stabbing him three times in the kidneys. The drac gave a stifled moan and slowly slumped, held up by the young woman.

  The drac smoking a short distance away didn’t notice a thing. Tired from the night watch, he was bored and sucked on his pipe, his gaze absent. A noise made him turn three quarters round, just before a pouch heavily loaded with grenades struck him beneath the chin, snapping his neck. Killed instantly, he fell backwards as the leather bag continued its trajectory at the end of the bandolier that Ballardieu wielded with art. Its next victim was the drac who had been dozing on a blanket and who only had time to rise up on his elbows. He, too, collapsed, his temple shattered.

  Satisfied, Ballardieu admired his work before collecting the first drac’s pipe and blowing on the tobacco that was still burning in the bowl. Agnès and he had almost completed their mission. Their task now was to free the horses and prevent any pursuit when they fled with La Donna. In passing, the old soldier noticed that there were four blankets around the campfire.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Why four?

  Agnès was finishing laying out the body of the sentry she had killed when the fourth drac came out of the grove, where he had been detained by a nasty bout of the runs. Shocked, they stared at one another for a brief second.

  Then it was a matter of who reacted first.

  The drac had a pistol at his belt.

  So did the corpse the young baronne was leaning over.

  The pistol shot caught them by surprise, coming when they had already infiltrated the ruins. Leprat was silently finishing off a guard on the ramparts; Marciac was dragging a body behind a low wall; Laincourt was sneaking up on a drac who had his back turned to him; and La Fargue was progressing towards the keep, a pistol in one hand and his solid Pappenheimer in the other.

  Everything suddenly accelerated.

  Senses abruptly alert, the last sentry standing spotted the intruders and raised the alarm. The dracs who were sleeping woke with a start and realised they were under attack. There was an immediate stir of activity. Shouts were raised. Shots rang out and, taking advantage of what little remained of the element of surprise, the Blades hurried to do as much damage as possible.

  La Fargue raced towards the keep and eliminated the drac at the entrance with a pistol ball fired right into his mouth before kicking in the worm-eaten door. Inside, sacks and kegs were deposited in a large room from which rose a spiral staircase. La Donna was almost certainly being held on the first floor, the storeys above either no longer existing or partially destroyed.

  The old captain dashed towards the steps, but was forced to beat a retreat as a huge black drac came down them, rapier in his fist. La Fargue recognised the drac even as he placed himself en garde: he had seen him at Mareuil, fighting beside the red drac who had led the attack. The black drac stared at the captain in return, and no doubt recognised him as well.

  Combat commenced and La Fargue quickly took the measure of his formidable opponent. The drac was fast, powerful, and he knew how to fence. Right from the start, the two adversaries threw all of their strength and skill into the battle. The drac because his brutal nature drove him to it and the captain because he knew time was against him. Their blades crossed and clashed violently in a series of attacks, ripostes, and counterattacks. Neither was prepared to give way. Neither could press home an advantage.

  Not until La Fargue made a mistake.

  Tripping, he clumsily parried a twisting attack that tore his sword from his hand. He fell on his back, rolled to the right and then to the left to avoid two thrusts that would otherwise have pinned him to the floor, then caught the drac’s ankles in a scissor movement of his legs. The reptilian tumbled, allowing La Fargue time to stand up and seize with both hands a keg, which he heaved at his opponent. It struck the drac on the brow and broke open, spilling the gunpowder within. Seeing this, the captain realised the kegs stored here were mines similar to those the dracs had employed in their assault on Château de Mareuil. But the black drac, stunned by the impact and blinded by the cloud of black powder, was already getting back up. La Fargue pounced on his Pappenheimer and, straightening, brandished it in both hands, blade forward …

  … before planting it all the way to the hilt in his kneeling opponent’s chest.

  The drac slowly sagged and then lay down for good, arms outstretched, in a spreading pool of blood.

  Out of breath, La Fargue gathered his wits before climbing to the floor above. He quickly found La Donna, who was a sorry sight to behold. She did not seem to have been beaten or particularly mistreated, but several days of captivity and fear had taken their toll. She was dirty and dishevelled, still wearing the dress in which she had been abducted. Frightened, she had her back to the wall. Her hands were bound and her eyes covered by a blindfold.

  ‘It’s me,’ the captain announced.

  ‘La … La Fargue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A sudden sob shook her shoulders. La Fargue freed her of her bonds and her blindfold. Still afraid but with a gaze full of gratitude, she pressed herself against him, trembling and fragile. She thanked him in a soft whisper:

  ‘Grazie … Molte grazie …’

  ‘Later.’ He pried her away from him. ‘Can you walk? Run?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then follow me.’

  He was already moving, dragging La Donna by the hand, when an idea came to him.

  The lantern burning in the room was no longer the sole source of light, as the first glow of dawn entered through a tall embrasure oriented towards the rising sun. La Fargue approached the opening an
d cast a glance down below. The embrasure overlooked the steeper side of the hill, the side where the dracs at the landing had been struggling up the footpath since hearing the alarm. Led by the Illuminator, they would soon pass just beneath the keep.

  ‘Let’s go,’ La Fargue said. ‘Take the lantern.’

  In the courtyard, among the ruins of the Château de Bois-Noir, Leprat, Laincourt, and Marciac faced odds of two or three to one. The musketeer and the cardinal’s former spy were fighting back-to-back in the middle of a circle of dracs, while the Gascon was defending the top of a flight of steps.

  La Fargue and La Donna left the keep at a run.

  ‘DOWN!’ yelled the captain.

  He immediately pushed the young woman to the ground behind a low wall and shielded her with his body. The others were caught short by the explosion of the powder charges stored in the tower. The detonation was enormous, violent, and deafening. It projected stones that whistled past like cannon balls while a cloud of dust and dirt engulfed the ruins. What remained of the keep tipped into thin air and fell in an avalanche of stone, wood, and rubble that swept down and carried away the dracs climbing the steep footpath. Their screams were inaudible from above.

  La Fargue was the first to pick himself up.

  His ears buzzing, he saw a powdery landscape on which a rain of debris, some of it aflame, was still falling. He helped La Donna to stand. Men and dracs were also struggling to their feet around them, dazed, staggering, and no longer in any state to fight. Their gestures were slow and uncertain.

  ‘ANY INJURIES?’ shouted La Fargue.

  Leprat and Laincourt shook their heads. Marciac waved a hand. He, too, was unhurt, or at least as unhurt as one could hope for. Two riders suddenly burst into the courtyard: Agnès and Ballardieu arriving, leading mounts for the others. As the dracs were beginning to recover their wits, they made haste. La Donna mounted behind Le Fargue and the Blades spurred their horses. As a final stroke, Ballardieu covered their escape with two grenades, which he tossed over his shoulder as they left the château.

  The whole band galloped down the wide looping road to the bottom of the hill. There, La Fargue ordered a brief halt, out of range of any musket fire. The expedition had almost been a disaster, but they were all still alive and La Donna had been rescued.

  ‘Is everyone all right?’ the captain asked, concerned.

  They reassured him, with the exception of Marciac who was trying to unblock his left ear by slapping the right with his palm …

  … and Agnès, who was looking back in the direction of the ruins.

  Dressed in the tattered remains of an outfit of clothing, a scaly creature stood at the top of the sole remaining turret. It leapt from its perch and came charging down towards the Blades.

  They immediately set off again at a gallop.

  The dragon had somehow survived the explosion and the keep’s collapse. Worse still, anger, fear, and the threat of death had triggered its uncontrolled metamorphosis into a monster even more bestial than the one the Blades had faced at Mareuil. It was now bigger, more powerful and more compact, with arms so long that its clawed hands touched the ground when it bent its knees. Its shoulders were enormous and its spine bent into a hump where it met a neck that was as short as it was wide.

  The creature came hurtling straight down the slope, taking the most direct route, then followed the road in hot pursuit of the riders. It did not run, but rather progressed by bounds with the help of its arms and legs, its body gathering itself in when it touched the ground and stretching into the air with each forward push. Its speed was extraordinary and the Blades, even at a full gallop, were losing their lead.

  Agnès and Ballardieu were at the back of the column.

  Without slowing down, the old soldier slid the pouch on his bandolier against his belly. He plucked out a grenade and lit the fuse from the bowl of his pipe, before letting the device fall behind him. He repeated this operation twice, but the grenades rebounded willy-nilly when they hit the earth. Only the third remained on the road, and it exploded well before the dragon reached the spot.

  Ballardieu realised that he wasn’t going to accomplish anything that way.

  He also realised they were lost if he did nothing.

  ‘KEEP GOING!’

  Pulling hard on the reins, Ballardieu forced his mount to rear and pivot on its hind legs. Before Agnès could react, he raced away in the opposite direction. Without thinking, she turned back as well.

  Ballardieu galloped full tilt towards the dragon, which, its eyes sparkling with a savage rage, also sped up. They met just beyond the bridge that crossed over a dry riverbed. The old soldier lit a last fuse; the creature bounded for him. Their collision overturned the rider and his mount. The horse gave a whinny of pain as the two opponents rolled in the dust and tumbled down into the dry gulch, disappearing from Agnès’ view. The monster was the first to rise. Foaming at the mouth, it looked about and saw Ballardieu clumsily trying to stagger away. Then the dragon saw that a strap was wrapped around its neck and felt a weight hanging between its shoulders.

  Ballardieu’s bag of tricks exploded and decapitated the dragon right in front of Agnès, who had jumped down from her horse and was running towards the creature, sword in her hand. She instinctively protected herself with an elbow and could not contain a grimace of disgust when she discovered what remained.

  Then she turned to Ballardieu, who was standing but tottering as if drunk, with a bleeding brow and a dislocated shoulder. She realised they would not finish hearing the tale of the day when Ballardieu slayed a dragon. She gave a smile …

  … which immediately vanished.

  ‘BALLARDIEU!’ she yelled, pointing her finger.

  Still dazed, the old soldier looked down to see the last grenade at his feet, which had not exploded with the others. The burning fuse was just reaching its end.

  The sound of the explosion drowned out Agnès’ scream.

  3

  The riders arrived in the courtyard of the inn at a gallop. They immediately dismounted and, carrying their wounded, blood-soaked comrade, almost broke down the door in their rush to bring him inside.

  ‘Make room!’ shouted La Fargue.

  He was holding Ballardieu up. Agnès, Marciac, and Leprat helped him. Together, they laid the old soldier out on the first table they saw. Laincourt and Alessandra followed them.

  In the large common room, the customers had stood up and moved away from the newcomers. The innkeeper didn’t know what to do, unable to tear his eyes away from the dying man, whose whole right side was one huge wound.

  ‘Leprat,’ La Fargue ordered, ‘make sure there’s no one following us.’ The musketeer nodded and left. ‘Marciac, what do you need?’

  The Gascon had started to cut away the scraps of blackened clothing that were stuck to Ballardieu’s raw wounds and burns.

  ‘Water and linen. And lint for bandages.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ La Fargue asked the innkeeper.

  The man was slow to react, but he nodded and hurried off.

  ‘And some straps!’ shouted Marciac. ‘Bindings, laces, anything like that!’

  He needed something to make better tourniquets than the emergency ones he had already put in place.

  Agnès was leaning over Ballardieu with tears in her eyes. She was whispering softly in his ear as she stroked his brow covered in dirt, sweat, and blood.

  La Fargue turned to Laincourt and La Donna, and it was the captain rather than the man who spoke.

  ‘Madame, you must leave now. You have to reach the Palais-Cardinal as soon as possible. Only then will you be safe.’

  ‘But I can’t leave you like this,’ protested the beautiful spy. ‘This man—’

  ‘His name is Ballardieu.’

  ‘It was while rescuing me that he—’

  ‘The mission comes first, madame. Laincourt, if you please …’

  The young man nodded and urged La Donna to turn away.

  ‘Come madame.
I will escort you.’

  She started to follow him, pulled gently backward by the arm.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you with all my heart …’

  But the Blades did not care about her gratitude: one of their own was dying.

  As Agnès continued to comfort Ballardieu, who probably could not hear her, Marciac murmured to La Fargue:

  ‘I’ll do my best. But he needs a surgeon.’

  The captain nodded and asked those gathered in the common room:

  ‘Is there a surgeon who lives near here?’

  People shook their heads and the innkeeper, who was returning with a basin filled with the items requested by Marciac, replied:

  ‘We are in the country, messieurs. The closest doctor lives in the faubourg Saint-Victor.’

  ‘By the time one of us travels to Paris for a surgeon and returns,’ La Fargue thought aloud, ‘we could be there ourselves …’

  ‘It’s out of the question. Ballardieu can’t ride a horse now. He’s lost too much blood, it would kill him.’

  ‘I have a cart,’ offered one good fellow among those watching.

  ‘Here.’

  Squinting painfully, Saint-Lucq took the spectacles from the hand holding them out to him. He had just woken and was trying to adapt to the light. His dragon eyes saw better in the day when protected by the red lenses. The headache that had threatened to overwhelm him receded.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He found himself in the peaceful surroundings of a modest chamber, lying on a narrow bed. He was fully dressed, or almost; only his doublet was missing, hung on the back of a chair. His hat was on the table, beside his rapier in its scabbard, and his leather baldric.

  The person who had returned his spectacles was sitting next to the bed.

  Elegant, in his thirties, and with grey hair, it was the gentleman La Fargue had met in secret the previous night, and whom the half-blood had followed as far as the Cloister of Notre-Dame.

  Before being knocked out.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In my home, rue du Chapitre.’

  The man saw the glance that Saint-Lucq gave his sword.