by K. E. Mills
Kissing his palm to the dragon's cheek, Lional sighed. Some subtle flow of flesh and bone rippled beneath his skin. Seemed to elongate his skull and dagger his teeth. Gerald thought he saw a shimmer of crimson scale, swift as fish-scales in a river.
'We were hunting,' said Lional in a soft and singsong voice, subtly not his own. 'The sheep, the boar, the bullock, the stag… blood like crimson nectar… but before we'd killed our fill we felt the air change. Smelt the rank unwelcome coming of the nasty little man with his stone of power and we thought…'
Abruptly, Lional blinked. The dragon blinked. They stirred as though waking from a dream. Then Lional smiled, a bright flashing of teeth, and the shadows beneath his skin sank from sight.
'Well, well, well,' he drawled. He sounded himself again. 'Hello, Zazoor. What brings you and your holy lapdog to my kingdom? And without an invitation. So rudeV
If Zazoor was unnerved by the ravening beast just feet away he gave no sign. He might have been attending a tedious tea party or receiving a tiresome guest in his own home. 'What brings us here, Lional? Fate. Destiny. The will of the Three.'
Lional's smiled widened. 'Can't you make up your mind? Well, it's nice to see some things never change.'
Zazoor's answering smile was deadly. When we were at school, Lional, I knew you for a cowardly boy who bullied and cheated to get his way. Now you are a man grown and you resort to torture when bullying and cheating no longer suffice. Indeed you have the right of it, my old school chum: truly, some things never change.'
Lional's smile vanished. His caressing fingers — with nails longer and thicker than they'd been just yesterday — dropped from the dragon's face and his blue eyes darkened, the flickering red flame in their depths leaping high. 'Burn them, my darling. Burn them to ash.'
The dragon roared, lower jaw unhinging to reveal a cauldron of fire. Flames writhing green and scarlet burst from its dagger-toothed mouth. Swift as a striking snake Shugat snatched the stone from his forehead and held out his hand. A bolt of blue-white light collided with the gushing fire. There was a hissing of steam and stinking smoke like hot lava striking an arctic sea. The dragon screamed, rearing on its hind legs, wings thrashing. Lional, fingers clawing desperately at his mouth, screamed with it.
Gerald turned on Shugat. 'See? You can hurt them! For God's sake, Shugat, you have to help me!'
Shugat glared, his eyes like the heart of a distant sun. He opened his mouth as if to speak… then froze. His eyes rolled back in his head, his arms flung wide and his tight-clutched staff began to shiver and twist. The stone he held exploded into life.
Its surge of power drove Gerald to his knees. As he struggled to breathe he heard Lional, shrieking, and the dragon's echoing roar. He looked up.
Lional's fingernails had gouged deep furrows in his face; blood flowed from his cheeks, his lips, his chin. The dragon was wounded too, its scales cracked and blackened, thick gore bubbled and stinking. But within moments the scales healed, and Lional's wounds. His hands came up, fingers curved into talons, and his eyes were soaked in scarlet.
Shugat moved in a blur of speed. As a stream of foul curses spewed from Lional's lips he swept staff and stone in an arc that encompassed himself, his sultan and the entire Kallarapi army. In its wake sprang a translucent domed shield; motionless within, Shugat and Zazoor and the warriors of Kallarap waited.
Stranded, unprotected, Gerald watched Lional and his dragon throw flame and vitriol and the worst curses in history at the holy man's shimmering shield. Spittle flew from Lional's mouth and green poison poured down the dragon's teeth, turning the ground beneath their feet to acid mud as the attack went on and on. Still the shield held.
Exhausted, half fainting, Lional fell back, one hand grasping at his dragon's spines to stop himself from falling. Equally spent, the dragon lowered its head and panted, wings limp and splayed upon the ruined grass.
Inside the barrier Shugat's eyes unrolled. He sighed, arms falling to his sides. Looked at Gerald, one wild eyebrow lifting in sarcastic invitation. Oh. Right. Gerald ran.
The flowerbeds at the far edge of the palace gardens had somehow escaped untouched, with unburned blossoms rising rank upon perfumed, bee-buzzed rank. With the last of his strength he dived headfirst into a cloying collection of hollyhocks, daisies and snapdragons. Ha.
Panting, he snatched up his arms and legs thinking: hedgehog. This far from the palace, to his shamed relief, he couldn't smell the stench of the dragon's kill. Thank God. Images of Lional and the dragon rose like flames before him. Kill them? He'd never kill them.
I'm going to die… I'm going to die… I'm going to die…
Some six inches from his nose a rustling of leaf litter. He sucked in moist, compost-rich air, unmoving. Another rustle. And then a lizard, a skink, skinny and brown with only one good eye, darted out from under a leaf and stopped, nervously scenting the air with its tiny tongue.
Gerald held his breath. Memory replayed recent, desperate words.
I'm the only wizard with a hope against Lional. But only if I fight with the same weapons he's got
When he'd said it he was convinced that meant using Grummen's Lexicon. But what if… what if…
You know what they say. Fight fire with fire. Or… dragon with dragon?
His stunned mind reeled. No. He was mad. How the hell could it possibly work? As lizards went, this one was pathetic. With its left eye shrivelled, practically crippled. Its matrix would make a piss-poor dragon; even with the strongest magic this little skink could never hope to match the brute muscularity and mindless viciousness of the bearded spitting lizard from Lower Limpopo. The dragons would never be equal: magic could only do so much.
But hey, Dunwoody. Remember your mantra: beggars can't be choosers, and it's the only lizard you've got. Even if all you can do is distract Lional… tire him out… buy enough time for Monk to return with reinforcements…
He didn't have a staff but that didn't matter. He had no need of staffs any more.
'Impedimentia implacatol On the brink of bolting, the little lizard froze and stared at him with its one good eye, cream-coloured sides pumping frantically for air.
He swallowed a sudden stab of conscience. Poor little thing. So timid. So frail. Did he have the right to do this? Change it? Distort it? Pit it against Lional's dreadful dragon, most likely to its death? There's no choice. I have to.
'Sorry little lizard,' he whispered, it's you and me or everyone else. I promise I'll make you as strong as I can. I just hope you survive transmogrification.'
And if it did, there remained the matter of his survival. Not just physical but mental. The Tantigliani sympathetica. If Lional, with the stolen potentias of five powerful wizards, couldn't resist its seductive destructive undertow, then prodigy or not, what chance did he have? Little to none.
Fear like a tidal wave smashed him to the dirt. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, or see anything in his future but a slow and bleeding insane death.
You took an oath and then you broke it. Here's your chance to mend it, just a little.
With infinite care he raised his head high enough to see around the garden, straining sight, hearing and wizard senses. No Lional, no dragon. But the respite wouldn't last. Withdrawing into his scented hiding place he scrabbled in the dirt for something sharp. His questing fingers found a rock, chipped on one side. It would have to do.
Setting his teeth, he unclenched the fingers of his left hand and struck into its palm with the piece of stone, again and again until he breached the sealing skin and freed the blood below. The pain was a welcome distraction.
Next he summoned from memory the exact sequence of blotches Lional had made on the crimson and emerald lizard's back to set in place the Tantigliani sympathetica.
When he was sure of it he opened his eyes, whispered 'Absorbidato complexus' and painted the skink with his hot, dripping blood. Then he ran his finger along its meagre length. 'A4anifesti retarto'. Finally, after checking it was still safe beyond t
he flowerbed, he picked up the skink and crawled out into the garden proper… where he set the lizard down on the close-clipped grass, took a deep breath and turned it into a dragon.
A roar of power. A rush of heat along every nerve. Vision incandescent, heart bursting, he felt the ether twist and turn in torment, felt the little lizard's dim-witted astonishment as bones lengthened, wings budded and fire filled its belly-He opened his eyes and saw his second dragon. A muted, muddy brown. Eight foot high and twelve foot long. No spines. No poison. A teaspoon of fire. He snapped his fingers before it could react. 'Manifest! asbsolutuml Tantigliani sympathetica obedientium singularum mil' And then, sealing both their fates:'Mix- nullimia!' The skinny brown dragon stirred. Turned its head to look at him, blinking. In a single heartbeat the world turned inside out… and he was staring at himself through the dragon's single black eye. He'd looked better.
The dragon raised its head and scented the rising breeze. Gerald, nostrils flaring, smelled smoke and fire, death and decay. A quick flutter of movement to the right caught the dragon's attention. He turned to look. A hummingbird, black and gold and unaware, paused to sup nectar from a nodding bloom in the next flowerbed. The dragon lashed out its tongue and pulled the hummingbird into the embrace of its gleaming white teeth. He felt fragile bones crack and split and hot blood course down his throat. He bent over, gagging. The dragon swallowed, and waited.
Straightening slowly, smearing bile from his lips with his sleeve, Gerald inhaled a deep calming breath. Inhaled another. And another. Then he took his dragon and went hunting for Lional. 'Right,' said Melissande. 'I've had just about enough of this.'
Monk sighed. 'I did warn you. Look, Melissande, they'll get to us when they get to us so there's no point — '
'There is every point! Because at the rate your precious Department's going I'll have qualified for the pension before they come to a decision!' she snapped. 'And another thing! You may be the one who said "Call me Monk" but / never answered, "Do call me Melissande". In fact if memory serves I said "Don't call me Melissande".'
Squatting between them, Reg refluffed all her feathers and said, 'Oh, give it a rest, you two, or I'll do both of you a mischief.'
They were sitting uncomfortably side by side by side in a drab grey waiting room outside some official chamber or other in Ottosland's antiquated Department of Thaumaturgy building. Apart from the back-breaking chairs there wasn't a stick of furniture. Neither were there windows to look through or any tedious old magazines to read. The room was cold and stuffy and not designed to succour its occupants.
Shivering, Melissande glanced through the open door to the drab grey corridor beyond. 'Where the hell has Rupert got to? It doesn't take this long to use the lavatory'
'Ha,' said Reg. 'He's probably been side-tracked by a moth.'
'That's not funny! Whatever you may think of him he really loved his butterflies! He's grieving for them, you horrible bird, he's probably got his head buried in a towel right now, crying his heart out for those stupid, stupid, insects!' 'Reg…' said Monk.'Please. You're not helping.'
With an effort Melissande pulled herself back from the brink of embarrassment… and didn't object when Monk took her hand in his. 'Nobody's helping,' she muttered, it was stupid to come here, we should have stayed in New Ottosland. Saint Snodgrass only knows what trouble Gerald's got himself into now. He had no business forcing me to come here. I should be at home, fighting for the people, I'm prime minister of New Ottosland and practically the queen!'
Not that she wanted to be. She couldn't think of anything worse. I wonder if I'll have to change my name to Lional…
'Don't you worry about Gerald,' said Reg. 'He's a wizarding prodigy. He can take care of himself.'
Melissande exchanged a mordant glance with Monk over the top of Reg's head. Clearly the bird didn't believe her own pep talk. / don't believe it either, I'm afraid. It'll take more than a prodigy to beat Lional and his dragon. It'll take a miracle… and I'm not sure they exist.
'Don't give up, Mel- Your Highness,' said Monk. 'The Deparment will come through for us, I know it. It's just going to take time. This is a hideously complicated situation, you know, involving five different nations, three of whom currently aren't officially talking to each other.'
Ah, politics. / am sick to death of politics. I think I'll ban them when I'm queen. She pulled a face at Monk.'I'm not giving up. And call me Melissande.'
Even though he was as worried as she was, his lips quirked in a brief grin. 'Thought you'd never ask. Look, do you want me to go hunting for Rupert while — '
The main chamber's large double doors opened. 'Come in, please,' said a discreet secretarial type dressed in sober black. 'Lord Attaby will see you now.'
Abruptly aware of appearing less than her best, Melissande slid off the chair and lifted her chin, defiant. 'And not a moment too soon. I was just about to make a Scene.'
As Reg hopped onto Monk's waiting shoulder she marched past the discreet secretary and into the chamber. Stalked across the room's ding)' carpet, Monk and Reg at her heels, and halted in front of the long polished oak conference table on the far side of the room. There was a click behind her as the secretary closed the double doors.
To her fury she saw the Ottosland officials at the table had been drinking tea and eating biscuits. Tea and biscuits while my kingdom is dragged to hell in a handbasket. How dare they? 'Right,' she said, glaring at the three men ranged before her. 'Which one of you is Lord bloody Attaby?'
The man in the middle, reeking of affluence and self-importance, inclined his head fractionally. His thinning silver hair was slicked to his skull with something smelly and expensive. 'I am Lord Attaby, Minister of Thaumaturgy for the Ottosland government.'
She looked left then right at his silent bookends. 'And these two?' 'My colleagues,' said Lord Attaby blandly. 'I see. And do they have names?'
'None that are relevant to these proceedings,' said Lord Attaby. 'Madam.'
She snorted, i'm not madam, I'm Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland and — and — Queen Presumptive.'
Lord Attaby laced his fingers before him, frowning.'Or so you claim.'
'Claim?' she demanded. 'What, you think I'm lying?' i think you are a young foreign woman lacking both identification and requisite travel documentation who has entered this country by dubious and possibly illegal means,' said Lord Attaby, looking down his nose at her. 'And who, it would appear, has suborned one of its citizens into breaking some very, very, serious laws.'
Monk stepped forward. 'No, she hasn't, Lord Attaby. That's all on me. And she is who she says she is, I can vouch for that. Unless you think I'm lying, too.'
Lord Attaby's chilly expression plummeted below freezing, it would appear, Mr Markham, you have been labouring under the mistaken apprehension that your illustrious family name would afford you unlimited protection in this matter. Allow me to disabuse you of this naive — '
The man on Lord Attaby's right lowered his raised, silencing hand. Melissande looked at him more closely; anyone who could halt an aristocrat mid-tirade was worth examining. He was extremely… nondescript. Unlike Lord Attaby, whose shirt was silk, he wore plain cotton. His watchband was leather, not gold, and he altogether lacked a pampered air. His hooded grey eyes were years older than his round, faintly lined face and mousy brown hair suggested. He didn't look like an enemy. He didn't look like a friend. More than anything he looked like a greengrocer or some other kind of inoffensive shopkeeper. How very odd, she thought. / wonder who he is?
The man on Lord Attaby's left took advantage of the silence and said, 'Your part in this, Monk, will be dealt with in due course. For now let us focus on the reason for Her Highness s unorthodox appearance in the country.'
Melissande glanced at Monk. He was subdued now and pink around the edges. 'Yes, Unc- Sir Ralph.'
'Lord Attaby' said Monk's important relative, properly deferring. 'Do continue, sir. I believe time is a commodity in short s
upply'
'Time, Lord Attaby, has pretty well run out!' Melissande said hotly. 'At least for your citizen Professor Gerald Dunwoody! I'm assuming you do care about him at least, even if you couldn't give a toss about the five dead wizards or the people of Kallarap or my people in New Ottosland, some of whom are already dead because of this string of disasters! You know, none of this would ever have happened if people like you hadn't failed to monitor Pomodor Uffitzi more carefully! If he hadn't got his hands on those dreadful grimoires, I wouldn't be standing here thaumaturgically related to a dragon!'
Lord Attaby sat back. 'Does this mean your… government… accepts no responsibility for this? Are you now claiming that your brother King Lional bears no culpability whatsoever tor the murder of five wizards, one of whom was an Ottoslander, or the deaths of your unfortunate citizens and his intended invasion of your peaceful neighbour?'
She felt herself turn red.'No,' she said curtly.'Of course Lional's culpable. He's also crazy. I'm not making excuses, I'm just giving you the facts.'
Lord Attaby smiled. It was extrememly unpleasant, in my experience, Prime Minister, facts are remarkably malleable things. They can be massaged to fit any number of scenarios depending upon a variety of preferred outcomes.' 'Really?' she said, seething. He nodded. 'Really'
'How very interesting. Because in my experience that's known as falsifying evidence. Manipulating the truth. To be blunt, Lord Attaby, it's known as lying. Also covering your arse!
The nondescript man on Lord Attaby's right looked down, lips twitching. Monk's illustrious relative frowned disapprovingly. Lord Attaby scowled, his pouchy face burnished dull crimson. 'Young woman — '
'No, not "young woman",' she said.'You were right the first time. Do at least try to keep the protocol intact.' She leaned her fists on the oak conference table and thrust her face into his. 'Now let's get something straight, my lord. As far as I'm concerned there's plenty of blame to go around for this fiasco. And when it's over, by all means, let's sit down with tea and biscuits and parcel it out like lumps of sugar. But before that, if it's not too much to ask, could you and your hoity-toity Departmental chums here stop pointing fingers for five seconds and do something constructive?' She raked them with a furious gaze. 'Because in case you've forgotten, gentlemen, people are dying1. And in light of that, how I got here and so on and so forth is just a steaming pile of bollocks!'
