by TJ Green
Raghnall stepped forward to shake his hand, and the lights on the balcony flared brightly, allowing them to see him clearly for the first time. He had thick black hair, streaked with grey, lightly oiled and swept back into a long plait. Keeping it neatly in place was a thinly beaten silver band that rested on his forehead, like a crown. He had a small, neat, triangular beard, and intense dark eyes that swept across them all imperiously before briefly resting on Nimue. His regal appearance was enhanced by his clothing. He wore a three-quarter-length coat of shimmering dark blue velvet over a shirt of fine embroidered linen, and knee-length soft leather boots. Rings adorned his fingers, and as Raghnall shook their hands Tom watched them twinkle in the lamplight.
“I am pleased you like it here. Every effort is made to provide comfort and pleasure. Not many are as immune as Nimue,” he said, looking at her pointedly.
“I’m not immune, just overwhelmed,” she said, rising to kiss his cheek.
“Anyone would think you starved yourself of beauty on Avalon. And I know that’s not true,” Raghnall said.
Nimue looked impatient. “Now now, Raghnall, let’s not do that again.”
“Of course not.”
Tom wondered what they were referring to.
“There is food prepared for you all. I presume you are hungry – after all, dragon slaying is tiring work,” Raghnall said, his eyes glittering.
“And how is it you know we slayed a dragon, Raghnall?” Arthur leaned back against the balustrade as if he owned the place.
“The lookouts along the wall.” Raghnall walked over to the table and poured himself a small drink of something black and viscous. “Vivian had informed me of your impending arrival, so we were keeping an especially close watch.” He turned to Nimue, smiling indulgently. “And naturally I am more than happy to help you recover, Nimue. You will of course stay here. I have prepared a room for you – for all of you, actually,” he said, his gaze sweeping across them.
“We couldn’t impose,” Woodsmoke said. “Just direct us to the nearest inn.”
“No! It’s far too late. I insist.” His hand flew up, palm outwards, as if to stop further discussion. “And besides, I have a large house as you can see.”
For some reason, despite their opulent surroundings, Tom wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stay at the House of the Beloved, and he sensed the others felt the same – Woodsmoke’s protestations weren’t just from politeness. Ever since they had entered Raghnall’s house, Tom had felt uncomfortable, and the fact that Vivian seemed to be an old friend didn’t reassure him. Maybe he was picking up on Nimue’s mood. And he was tired and sweaty and wanted a bath and clean clothes.
As if reading Tom’s thoughts, Raghnall said, “But I am so thoughtless. You must want to wash and change.”
As he finished speaking a bell rang throughout the house, and in seconds a small dark-haired faery materialised in the doorway. He bowed deeply. “My lord?”
“Please escort our guests to their rooms.” Raghnall nodded to them. “Dinner will be in an hour. Nimue, I will come and see to your injuries.” He then strolled to the edge of the balcony and gazed across the vista below, and with that they were dismissed.
Tom had never stayed in a five-star hotel, but imagined this would be a very similar experience. His room was enormous, and it contained the biggest bed he had ever seen, covered in sheets of silk and linen, and the most enormous puffy pillows. The furnishings were as bright as the marble was dark. Thick rugs covered the floor and paintings hung from the walls. A door led to an ensuite bathroom where the bath was filled with hot steaming water smelling of cedar. Thick towels hung on a stand to the side. His bags were in his room, unpacked, and his clothes were clean and fresh. Tom doubted even a five-star hotel could do that so quickly.
Tom soaked in the tub wishing he could stay there for hours. Whatever was in the water was soothing his aching muscles, and he scrubbed himself clean with an energy he hadn’t felt in days.
Feeling refreshed, Tom met the others in the hall outside his room. “How long are we staying here?” he asked.
“Considering our long days on the road and the journey ahead, I think we should stay a few nights,” Arthur said. “If Raghnall has no objections.”
“I agree,” Brenna said. “We could use the rest. You can put up with us for a few more days, Nimue?”
Nimue looked better than she had done in days. Her eyes were bright, and she was no longer hunched over from her injured shoulder. “It’s fine with me – anything to put off being alone here with Raghnall.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “I doubt you’ll be alone, Nimue. Besides, he’s not that bad.”
“You wait. You haven’t spent an evening with him yet. Anyway, the longer you’re here, the better I get. I may be able to come with you!”
“I think you jest, Nimue. I doubt you wish to see Merlin so soon, especially with the sylphs. And he certainly won’t want to see you.”
She smirked. “You may be right. But will you at least release my binding?”
“Only once we’ve left.”
“Why not now?” Nimue glared at Arthur.
“Because I said so,” he said, sounding like he was talking to a child.
“Perhaps,” intervened Woodsmoke, “we should discuss this later. I’m starving.” And with that he led the way downstairs, the others quickly following.
Dinner was elaborate, delicious and uncomfortable. As good as the food tasted, Tom couldn’t wait for it to be over. Nimue was right. Raghnall was an insufferable show-off, a tedious bore. The conversation flowed, but only because Arthur, Beansprout and Brenna worked hard to be sociable; the rest of them struggled.
The longer the evening went on, and the more Raghnall showed off, the more competitive Arthur became. And unfortunately for Raghnall, when Arthur put his mind to it, he was very good at storytelling. Arthur didn’t usually boast, so Tom could tell Raghnall was annoying him. The sorcerer relayed a long tale about a large party he had thrown for the visiting sylphs. He described the food, the decorations, the lights, the clothes, and then the music. Tom stifled a yawn.
And then Arthur started. “The week of my coronation was idyllic! Merlin surpassed himself. I have never seen Camelot look more beautiful, its towers more gilded, or the decorations so sumptuous. The visiting princes and their wives were a vision, and the feasting and hunting were unmatched in their success.”
Tom caught Raghnall’s expression across the table and quickly glanced away for fear he should laugh. He decided to concentrate on his food. Woodsmoke was watchful and monosyllabic, and Nimue was amused.
Raghnall asked them about their travels, but already seemed to know exactly what they had been up to. “So Nimue, Vivian tells me you had a problem with Merlin?”
“Yes, Raghnall, I did. What of it?” she challenged.
“Being trapped in a spell for centuries seems a harsh punishment,” he said, “for love.”
“Oh! That’s what you call it? Strange, it didn’t feel like that to me,” she said, artfully spearing a piece of beef.
“But a highly impressive spell, nevertheless.” He raised his glass to her before taking a sip.
“Not so impressive when you’re trapped in it,” Arthur said with a sidelong glance at Nimue.
Nimue dropped her head and looked at the table.
“Vivian gave me little information,” said Raghnall, “so–”
“No surprise there,” Arthur interrupted.
“I’m curious. How did you get out of it?” Raghnall continued, ignoring Arthur’s tone.
“Tom prepared the ingredients to break the spell, and Herne finished it off,” Arthur said airily, as if it had been the easiest thing in the world.
Tom felt Raghnall’s piercing gaze fall on him, and his languid polite air seemed to disappear. “Really, Tom? There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”
Tom wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered. Insulted, probably. Did he look like an idiot?
Tom suppressed a smirk by taking a big mouthful of food, watching Raghnall’s response out of the corner of his eye.
Raghnall looked at Woodsmoke, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Indeed I do. It is possible, though, to eat well, sleep well, and generally live well, even with hidden depths, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” Woodsmoke said, raising his glass. “Here’s to your excellent wine.”
An unpleasant undercurrent seemed to have risen to the surface, and in an effort to submerge it again, Beansprout spoke. “Excuse me, Raghnall, but could you recommend a weapon maker tomorrow? I have a piece of dragon scale I would like making into something.”
Raghnall held Woodsmoke’s gaze for a second longer, then turned to Beansprout. “It would be a pleasure, my dear. And of course, Arthur will need a gem-maker.”
“Ah, yes. My dragonyx. Your help would be much appreciated,” Arthur said smoothly.
“It’s quite a feat to kill a dragon.”
Arthur must have decided that Raghnall had been baited enough. “And to enchant them too, I’m sure.”
“I must admit the spell requires a lot of maintenance. It is not something every sorcerer could manage for so long, or so successfully. It both repels the dragons and provides a force of protection over the city and passes.”
Raghnall’s humour seemed to have returned, and he called for the last course. His servant appeared and disappeared in seconds, clearing the plates and returning with dessert. Raghnall continued, “Even you, Nimue, with your great powers, could not maintain this spell. Although I gather your powers are currently bound.”
“Yes, courtesy of the Cervini shaman. He seemed to take exception to my putting their leader in a spell. And Nerian still carries my poppet,” Nimue said before Arthur could explain, “and refuses to restore my powers. It seems I must wait for a while.”
Why, thought Tom, did she just lie to Raghnall? Why wouldn’t she want him to know Arthur carried her poppet? However, despite discrete glances across the table, no one corrected her lie, and she picked up her glass and took a delicate sip. “And yet,” she continued, “a dragon did attack us today, despite your spell. I have a theory.”
“Please, I would like to hear your thoughts on it,” Raghnall said magnanimously, his tone of voice suggesting her opinion was the last thing he wanted.
“I think Excalibur called the dragon.”
“Really?” He tapped his glass thoughtfully. “I have heard of your Excalibur, Arthur. May I see it?”
Arthur pulled Excalibur free of its scabbard and handed it, hilt first, to Raghnall. The light slid across the polished blade and Tom was sure he heard it whisper, like silk across a polished surface. Raghnall handled it gently and reverently, but his eyes were greedy, and he held it inches from his face, following its smooth lines and intricate engravings. “Take me up, and cast me away,” he murmured before falling silent in contemplation.
“What?” asked Tom.
“It’s what the writing on the sword says,” Arthur explained, watching Raghnall.
“I hear it,” Raghnall whispered. “It speaks of many things: its birth in the fires of the Forger of Light, snatches of song, of victory, death, blood, strange lands, broken promises, of belonging.” Raghnall’s eyes were now closed, and it seemed he barely breathed, so intense were his thoughts. Nimue leaned forward, listening closely. She glanced at Arthur and then back to Raghnall, her expression concerned. Finally, Raghnall opened his eyes, looking dazed, and his gaze moved around the table, finally settling on Arthur. “I think it is one of the most incredible weapons I have heard.”
“I thought only dragons could hear that. How can you hear it?” Nimue asked, watching him intently.
Raghnall made an effort to shake off his otherworldly state. “The old royal houses of the fey have many diverse and special skills. And this is my skill, Nimue, didn’t you know?”
“No, actually I didn’t.”
“It is why I collect such weapons. It is why I live here. I love their songs.” Again he appeared distracted. As if he had said too much, he handed back Excalibur to Arthur. “Yes, it most certainly called the dragon. It is very powerful.”
Arthur looked with renewed admiration at Excalibur and asked, “But you couldn’t hear it before? Before you tried?”
“No,” Raghnall admitted, “but it is a skill I have to switch on. Living here, surrounded by such things, I would go mad if I heard these songs all the time.”
“Are we in danger here? Will Excalibur call the dragons into the Hollow?” Arthur asked, concerned.
“No. The spells around the city are much more powerful than on the mountain. You can sleep easy tonight.” Raghnall’s gaze fell to the sword again and there was a greed in it he couldn’t quite hide. “But just to be sure, I can cast a spell of protection on your scabbard, if you wish?”
Arthur looked uncertain, and Raghnall added, “It would make your journey out of the Hollow much safer.”
Arthur nodded. “All right.”
Raghnall nodded to Nimue. “It is a spell you are familiar with.” He took Arthur’s scabbard and for a few minutes held his hand over it, muttering words unknown to Tom, until a blue light passed over the scabbard. “There, as long Excalibur is sheathed the dragons will not hear it.”
Nimue nodded. “It’s a good spell, Arthur.”
As Arthur sheathed Excalibur, Woodsmoke said, “So you collect weapons, Raghnall?”
“Yes, I have a special room I keep them in. I will show you tomorrow if you like?”
Woodsmoke nodded. “Yes please.”
“But perhaps before it becomes too late we should examine your dragonyx, Arthur?” Raghnall suggested, looking towards the wrapped jewel on the divan where it now lay. “Not many outside the Hollow know to take the heart.”
“I would imagine it’s not something you advertise, Raghnall?” Arthur said softly.
Raghnall didn’t answer, and instead a ghost of a smile crossed his face.
Arthur picked up the dragonyx and put it on the table, gently removing its wrappings. It glowed in the soft candlelight, and just visible through the milky opacity of the jewel’s outer shell they could see the ruby luminescence, the veins of gold and the black knot at its centre. It was hard to believe Arthur had cut it out of a dragon earlier, and that it had once been a living beating heart pulsing with blood.
Raghnall rose from his seat and stood over the dragonyx, staring at it intently. He examined it from every angle, before finally putting his hand on the stone and listening.
“One of the older dragons, I think,” Raghnall murmured. “What colour was it?”
“Blue and green,” Nimue said.
“And it was very big,” Tom added.
“Mmm, maybe it was Viridain,” Raghnall said thoughtfully. “Ah well, we shall soon see tomorrow, when we visit the Chamber of Transformation.”
“The what?” Beansprout said.
“The place where the dragon is taken apart for its gold and jewels. I can assure you, it’s fascinating. And then we will visit the gem-makers, where you will find, Arthur, that you will get a good price for your dragonyx.”
24 The Price of Dragons
The Chamber of Transformation was carved out of the rock deep beneath the left peak, and was accessed by a long tunnel that started in the town. It was rough hewn, long, low roofed and stiflingly hot. A central pit filled with flames lit up the cavern with a lurid glow, casting the faces of the goblins, trolls and fey who worked there into strange contorted shapes. The air rang with the sound of saws and hammers and the zing of metal on metal.
The dragon Arthur had slayed was spread on a large flat area of stone, where half a dozen goblins had already started to peel away its scaly skin and strip its veins and arteries of gold. Tom was forced to agree with Raghnall. As gory as it was, this was fascinating.
&n
bsp; “I was right,” Raghnall said, self-importantly. “This is Viridain. Or was.”
“Do you name them all?” Tom asked.
“Only the ones we see most often. Although there are bigger dragons, this one was bold and caused many deaths over his long life. His hoard will be huge.” Raghnall looked excited at the prospect of new gold. “And,” he added quickly, “his hoard is not yours, Arthur. It belongs to the city.”
“Don’t worry,” Arthur said. “I think I’ll have enough gold.”
“Do you know where his hoard is?” Beansprout asked.
“Not exactly, but I have a good idea.” There was a speculative glint in Raghnall’s eye.
Nimue muttered, “Of course you do.”
Above the dragon’s body was a series of wooden walkways, ropes and pulleys, and large buckets. Next to the body, running along the floor to the fire pit and other areas of the cave, were tracks carrying wheeled containers into which various parts of the dragon were placed.
The goblins had already made a lot of progress. Shiny gold sinews and what were once veins and arteries were already overflowing one container. With a shout and a mighty push, a goblin leapt onto the flat-bottomed trolley the container was on, escorting it to the edge of the fire pit. He leant on a bar which applied the brakes, and then, manipulating another switch, the cart tipped, sending the gold sliding over the edge.
Another goblin had started to fill a cart with the dragon’s glittering scales, and yet another was loading what appeared to be the organs and viscera into a trolley destined for a different part of the cave. It was such a clinical operation that Tom felt repulsed.
“The process of transformation starts with the death of the dragon,” Raghnall said. “The organs start to change from flesh to jewels, but we have found that the application of heat speeds up the process and improves the quality of the gems.”
“So the whole dragon turns into gems?” Beansprout said.
“No. Not at all. There are parts that are quite unusable! But we are adept at getting the most out of them,” Raghnall said smugly. “Of course, it has been quite some time since we have had a dragon to transform. They are notoriously difficult to kill.” He looked at Arthur with begrudging admiration.
