ACE

by G R Matthews

  Bullets struck the dragon with a bright metallic patter. Against its scales they were an annoyance, nothing more. If they struck the eyes, inside the nose or mouth, or the vulnerable spot where the tail joined the body, they would be more of a threat. This wasn’t Beval’s first fight and the intelligent beast knew to keep its mouth closed and eyes narrowed to slits.

  James forced his thoughts to calm. This wasn’t his first battle either. The dragon was strong, but with a battlemage on its back it was more than that, it was deadly. Twisting his mind and channelling the staff’s power into the correct shapes, he cast the spell. Around him, the shield of air he had conjured glowed dull orange for a second. A similar one appeared around the dragon’s head.

  Now the bullets climbed the dragon’s scaled body and began to splatter against his shield. Each strike draining a little of the power and the lead projectiles spun away. Tying the shield spell to the staff through the conduit of his mind, he settled and firmed the armour spell. Now he was free to act. He needn’t have bothered.

  One plane, one Bf109, was no match for a dragon. Beval’s mouth opened wide and a stream of super-cooled air containing billions of acid droplets flew forth. The machine stood no chance. Its wings, already under stress from the climb, ripped away from the fuselage and the Bf109 went into a spin. Acid ate away, dissolved the metal skin of the plane and smoke billowed from the engine, the pitch rising, accompanied by the screech of gears grinding upon each other.

  “There will be more,” James sent as the dragon extended its wings once more and settled into level flight. He watched the plane fall, there was no parachute.

  “Then, James Lock, let us make all speed to the location and begin our task,” Beval roared once more, letting his body tip forward, gaining speed and losing altitude at a less precipitous rate than a moment ago.

  Letting power fade from the shield, James maintained the air around him, letting some of the wind pass through. There was little point being on the back of dragon without experiencing the rush of air. Eric had loved this. He still loved this, James corrected his thoughts.

  Near the waves, Beval levelled off and sped across the coastline. Gone were beautiful pebble expanses of years ago. Now, dirty iron crosses and concrete pillars rose from the beach, protection against a feared invasion of tanks or amphibious craft. Too low for the flak guns, they were in range of the machine guns nestled into their bunkers along the hills and cliffs. More tracer fire leapt towards the dragon and its rider. As before, a simple reinforcing of the spell and trusting in the dragon’s armour were enough to see them past. Little point in destroying them, in wasting time, energy or power, the call had already gone out.

  “Further south,” James sent and the dragon changed course accordingly. Now, to their left, the open farmland of northern France, high hedges and raised banks dividing the countryside into a patchwork of crops ready for harvest. To the right, the waves of the cold North Sea. “Ambelteuse.”

  Below them, a small fishing village set into a range of majestic sand dunes came into view. Golden hills covered with sparse patches of grass near the sea and, further inland, small copses of trees. James could see tracks winding amongst the dunes and further south the Nazi stronghold of Wimereux.

  Beval skirted the small village. Even so, James spotted people in the fields and upon the narrow streets turn to stare and point at the great beast as it passed. There could have been a soldier in amongst them. It mattered little. No rifle was going to hurt the dragon and to hit James upon its back was an impossible shot.

  Between Ambleteuse and Wimereux, the land was entirely dunes. Uncultivated and only low trees and bushes gave shape to the low rolling hills. Also absent was the impact crater of a Spitfire. If Eric’s dragon had truly crashed here, there would have been a scar, a great swathe of burnt vegetation, a crater easy to spot, sand heated to black glass. The death of a Spitfire was something everyone avoided, collateral damage was always terminal.

  “There is nothing, James Lock.” Beval slowed and circled the dunes.

  “This is the area the other riders and dragons reported.”

  “It is unlikely they were all mistaken.” The dragon’s thoughts had a puzzled tone. “Perhaps, as you say, they survived, but where are they now?”

  “Hiding or captured,” James sent. “The Spitfire must have been seen by someone.”

  “James Lock, we cannot be here for long. They will send many planes to look for us. Even I can only defeat so many at once.”

  “We can ask in the village,” he said, adding an image of the homes and people to his thoughts.

  “That is not a good idea, James Lock. On the ground, we are vulnerable and stand out. We will not be hard to find.”

  “I thought of that before we left,” James sent. “Trust me, please. I have to know what happened to him and to his Spitfire.”

  “James Lock,” Beval warned.

  “Please.”

  “We will regret this, James Lock.” The dragon shook his head and beat his wings, slowing and coming to a hover just above the dunes.

  A great cloud of fine sand rose around them both, obscuring James’ vision of the dunes, the shield doing little to keep the fine grains out. Raising a scarf over his mouth and nose, attempting to breathe as little as possible, he closed his eyes. He felt the dragon settle to the ground and the gusts died away.

  He slid from Beval’s back and started to undo the catches and loops which secured the saddle to the dragon’s back.

  “This is not wise, James Lock. Without the saddle, the journey home is more dangerous. I cannot fight while worrying you will fall.”

  A whisper and a thump indicated the saddle had finally succumbed to his efforts and fallen to the floor.

  “It’ll be fine. Bury the saddle. I doubt we’ll have time to come back for it.” James turned away from the sight of large claws tearing at the earth, and unpacked the mail bag, dumping its contents onto the sandy ground. Not the packages and letters that it should have held, they were back on the base, behind a cupboard, but two sets of clothes. Suits, to be exact. Not expensive, but both of James’ best and shoes to match.

  He unzipped and shrugged himself out of the flight suit and threw it into the hole alongside the saddle. The late afternoon summer sun was warm on his bare skin and it with a sigh of regret he pulled on the suit trousers, shirt, shoes, socks and jacket. Fiddling with the tie and securing the knot against the collar buttons, he watched Beval cover up the saddle and stamp down the sand and dirt. Not a perfect disguise, there was large bump in the earth and the marbled combination of dirt and sand looked unlike anything else around. It would have to do.

  “I do not like this, James Lock,” Beval muttered. “Fill the staff. You will get no other chance until we leave.”

  The staff, the one thing that marked him out as a dragon rider amongst the people of France, England, any country. A walking stick, he could have got away with, but the RAF was bound by tradition. If you could cast dragon magic, you carried a staff. At least it was plain. Not like those who flaunted their wealth with runes, inscriptions and tips shod in gold. The Locks were an old family, but a poor one. Touching it to the dragon’s body, James drew the magic into the wood and contained it with ties and sigils created by his mind.

  “Get changed,” James said as he removed the staff.

  Watching this was always fascinating, and difficult. The air around the dragon blurred, as though looking at the beast through eyes woken suddenly from a deep sleep. There was the sense that your brain knew exactly what it was looking at, but the eyes were refusing to focus on it. When they did, the brain rebelled. What it saw, it interpreted, could not be happening. An optical illusion that crashed a wave of nausea through any onlooker. James looked away before his stomach heaved.

  “Small minds, James Lock. You have big dreams, but you cannot reconcile the simplest of transformations.” The dragon’s voice, his spoken voice, was deep and thrummed with supressed power. If a human had spoken li
ke that, they’d be deemed arrogant, but somehow, even wearing the form of a man, the voice fitted perfectly. “I’m dressed, shall we go?”

  Beval wore the suit as if it had been made for him, tailored on Saville row. It hadn’t been, but Beval, no doubt, had altered his form to fit the suit perfectly. James shook his head and sighed, there was no point, he concluded, in being jealous that the suit looked better on the dragon than it did on him.

  At a glance, Beval would pass for human. On a second look, there would be a puzzled frown. Something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t just the way he walked, too sure, too confident, too graceful. It was more than just the perfect skin, flawless, unscarred and no hint of age. It was the eyes. Focus upon the dragon’s face and you would notice the eyes. No round pupil peered back at you. Instead there was a vertical slit, like a lizard’s, a cat’s, and the pupil too black, the green iris too green, too bright, and iridescent.

  “We cannot wait around here, James Lock.” Beval waved a hand, indicating that James should lead the way.

  “We’ll try the village. They must have seen something.”

  “And why would they tell us anything?” Beval asked as they walked through the low gorse towards the village.

  “Why wouldn’t they? I am sure they have no love for the Nazis,” James said.

  “But they may have no love for the English either, James Lock. You have fought many wars with France over the centuries.”

  They crested a dune and saw the village resting in the small valley ahead. When they had flown over, just a few minutes ago, it had seemed tiny, a few houses, a narrow street or two, a church, and a small river bisecting the village. At ground level, their observations confirmed that impression. Two boats were drawn up on the shingle bank, far from the waves, and if there were others, they were trying their luck on the seas.

  “We’ll be quick,” James said. “Find a few folks, ask a question or two and get out.”

  “We’ll arouse suspicion, James Lock.”

  “Keep your hat down.” James followed the words with a weak smile. “They saw us fly over. They are already suspicious.”

  They skirted the gorse and found a track worn into the sand, really just a small gap between the bushes and followed it into the village. At first, there appeared to be no one around. The village was quiet, but the rattle of a shutter and a sharp, whispered conversation led them to the door of one of the homes.

  “Bonjour,” James called, knocking on the thin wooden door. “Pouvez-vous nous traire?”

  “What did you say, James Lock?” Beval asked.

  “I asked for their help.”

  “Are you sure?”

  James shrugged and turned back to door. He was raising his hand to knock again when it was snatched open and small, round woman in a blue polka dot dress and an apron that may have begun the day white but was now smudged and smeared, glared up at him.

  “Allez,” she demanded and pointed down the street.

  “She wants us to go, James Lock.”

  He waved a hand at Beval, silencing his companion and took a breath, thinking the words through before speaking in a halting mix of English and French. “Have vous regardez un lézard volant?”

  The small woman returned a puzzled look and gestured again for them to move on.

  “James Lock, the French for dragon is dragon.”

  “If you spoke the language, why didn’t you volunteer to do the talking?” James settled for a glare at the disguised dragon.

  “I was under the impression that you wanted my nature to remain hidden.”

  “Talk to her, Beval. Find out what we need to know.”

  All three looked to the sky as the deep roar of engines interrupted the conversation. From the north, flying low over the village, three Bf109s screamed overhead. The old lady waved a fist at the Nazi planes and spat out a stream of words James didn’t catch.

  “She doesn’t like the invaders,” Beval said before stepping forward and addressing the lady.

  His French sounded perfect, even the accent seemed genuine. James was lost after the first sentence. Despite the lady’s recoil at her first glimpse of the dragon’s eyes, she seemed willing to talk. Perhaps the planes had done them a favour. James kept a lookout, scanning the narrow streets and houses for danger.

  “Merci, Madame.” Beval ended the conversation with a tip of his hat. “James Lock, there is good news. Your brother and the Spitfire survived their landing. There is bad news also. Madame Letocart says they were taken away by the Nazis.”

  “Where to?”

  “Wimereux, the town on the other side of the dunes. She says that people have been talking about a dragon being captured and held in the old chateau just south of the town. James Lock, we should not allow them to hold the Spitfire for too long. They may learn of our weaknesses.”

  “We’ll get them both out,” James said, nodding his thanks to the lady who returned a shrug and slammed her door shut. He beckoned Beval back towards the dunes. “Wimereux is about two miles away and, if I remember the map correctly, a mile beyond that is the chateau your lady friend told you about. That’s an hour or so in straight line. We’ll have to detour around. We’ll hide in a copse and wait till evening. Then we’ll go and get my brother and the Spitfire.”

  ***

  The chateau was surrounded by a high wall and patrolled by armed guards. Two towers flanked the gates and dim lights illuminated the approach road. Too bright and they’d attract the attention of the Faireys, the small dragons whose excellent night vision and ability to spit giant globules of a liquid that caught fire, clinging to anything it touched, made them ideal for the role of night bombers. It was difficult to see into the grounds, but the building itself was set back, close to, but not touching, the rear wall of the compound. Three stories high and a central tower that reached another above that, it wasn’t the prettiest chateau. More functional and defensive than decorative.

  “We have a few hours till dawn,” James said, checking the glowing dial of his wristwatch.

  “Over the wall, James Lock?”

  “Let’s go.” James took off at a run, through the calf-high, uncut grass towards the wall. He could feel, rather than hear, Beval follow. Suit trousers and shoes were not ideal for an attack on an enemy compound, especially a stealthy one, but you made do when there were no other choices.

  Five steps from the wall, he channelled a little of the staff’s power into his legs, twisting the magic and tying it off. Leaping, he sailed to the top of the wall, cast a quick glance around and dropped to the other side, letting the magic ebb as he did so. Beval landed beside him.

  “The Spitfire is over there,” Beval whispered, pointing to a large cage set against the far wall.

  In the dark, it was difficult for James to make out the bulk of the injured dragon, but he trusted Beval’s words. The chateau appeared to be quiet. A few guards stood by the gate talking and smoking, the dim lights providing illumination enough to see them.

  “Eric first,” James said. “If we break the Spitfire out, they’ll know something is wrong.”

  Beval held James’ gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Can you find Eric, James Lock?”

  “Now that we are this close, I think so.” James dipped his hand into a pocket and retrieved a tie similar to the one he was wearing. “He left it the other day, before he went back to the Hill.”

  Wrapping it around the staff and securing it with a knot, he let a little more of the magic seep out. Twisting the tendrils of power around the tie, weaving them into the material, he left one thread to dangle free. It pointed the way to Eric, the chateau’s central tower.

  “We’re going in there, James Lock?”

  “Yes, Beval. Let’s find a window on this side and see if we can persuade it to let us in.” He tapped the transformed dragon’s shoulder and led the way.

  Skirting the wall, they waited for the guards to look away and made a dash for the side of the chateau. The window was closed and peering in, Ja
mes could make out the simple catch that prevented them from entering.

  “Break it, James Lock,” Beval whispered in his ear.

  “Too noisy. One moment.” He rested the tip of the staff against the wooden frame and let the magic flow, guiding its path, following the grain, twisting around the knots and nails until he could feel it grasp the latch. Another shift of his mind, a lurch of power rather than a slow exhalation, and the window swung open with an almighty squeal that spoke of swollen wood and hinges long denied oil.

  “Breaking it may have been quieter,” Beval observed as shouts of alarm and the sound of feet running, crunching along the gravel pathway came from the direction of the gate.

  “In,” James ordered and, following his own advice, threw the staff into the dark room beyond and clambered after it. As soon as his feet touched the rich carpeted floor, he heard gunfire and the shattering of glass. Turning, he watched Beval duck another round of bullets.

  “Go, James Lock. I will lead them away.” And with a quick wave the dragon took off at a run towards the back of the chateau. More gunfire erupted and he couldn’t be sure whether Beval had been hit or not. Grabbing the staff from the floor, he hurried across the room, opened the door. A few phrases of German slipped through the open window. He cut them off by stepping through and closing the door.

  Ahead, a long hallway and he raised the staff enacting the shielding spell. A slight shimmer of the air and he tied the spell off. With no dragon to tap for more magic, the shield could not be relied on for long. James took a deep, steadying breath, and started down the corridor, the tracking spell fixed on his brother.

  The door to his left swung open and an officer, still buttoning up his grey tunic, stepped out. Jabbing the end of the staff into the man’s throat, James forced him back. A second more solid strike to the officer’s chest knocked him down. The man kicked his legs, struggling to breathe. James followed him into the room, cast a glance around to make sure it was empty, and brought the staff down onto the officers’ head. Hitching his hands underneath the unconscious man’s shoulders, James dragged him further in and out of sight.