I doubt if you will find Ashgar on any map of Central Europe, for it is a tiny, mountainous country that nestles, almost unnoticed, between its more important neighbours. It has few towns and although cars are not unknown, most people still use horse-drawn carriages or ride on horseback, the roads in many places being little more than rutted tracks. Deer, wild boar and wolves roam the countryside but apart from hunters, few people venture deep into its forests as old tales speak of dwarves, dragons and other strange creatures that lurk in dark places among the trees.

Neither did the country folk, themselves, encourage visitors. A surly, silent lot, they were happy enough to sell their farm produce at marketstalls in towns and villages, but they kept their affairs to themselves and made no mention of the growing number of wolves that roamed the countryside, descending on their farms at night to steal their chickens; nor did they tell of the of the evil black crows that watched the highways and byways for curious strangers. Neither did they speak of the mountains of the north where dragons lived, nor of the lands to the east where powerful magicians dwelt in dark castles.

Magicians such as the great Lord Jezail, whose turreted citadel dominated the narrow streets and quaint, red-roofed houses of Stara Zargana; a little country town that was old even in ancient times. Separated from the houses by a curved, rocky bridge that reared high over a fast-flowing mountain stream, no one visited it willingly. Rumours of strange happenings within its walls had, over the years, made its citizens wary. Wary, I might add, but not surprised for, although no one talked of it openly, it had long been known that the citadel was a magic building. Indeed, it was whispered that in days of old, when Lord Jezail’s father ruled the eastern province, it gleamed in shades of white and cream; slim, slender and elegantly beautiful against its majestic background of forests and mountain peaks. As evil had crept into Lord Jezail’s heart, however, so the colour of the Citadel had gradually changed. Now it rose, black and threatening over the town and few people looked at it without a shudder of fear.

High in the topmost tower of this, his great citadel, Lord Jezail stood silently by a slit window that gave a clear view over the distant, tree-clad slopes of the mountains that lay to the east of the town. His face was unusually worried. Where was the man? Why hadn’t he come? Idly, he fingered the chain of the heavy, gold medallion that hung round his neck. Inscribed with ancient runes, he had inherited it from his father and its magic was strong. His talisman, too, was powerful and he smiled in satisfaction as the sunlight glinted on the silver band that clasped his wrist.

Idly, he thought of his forthcoming journey and excitement glistened in his dark eyes for, if what he had been told was true, then he might soon be able to add the fabulous Book of Spells to his collection. His spirits lifted at the thought for with such a book in his library he would command the respect of every magician in the world!

Such visions of future fame and glory, however, soon faded as, once more, he lifted his eyes to scan the mountain passes. Tapping his fingers impatiently on the smooth, stone window-sill, he could barely conceal his impatience. Where was the man? What was keeping him? Winter had already given way to spring and the passes through the mountains had long been open to the peoples of the east, yet his crows had still brought no news of him.

A slight draught told him that a door had opened and he turned to see Count Vassili enter the room. His aide, dark-haired and handsome, adjusted the neck of his ruffled shirt and straightened his black velvet robes before bowing low before Lord Jezail. His mind, however, was working swiftly as he’d been quick to spot the frown on his master’s face. “You’re tired, Milord,” he murmured. “Come and sit down. I’ll have tea sent to you at once.”

“Tea!” Lord Jezail muttered. “It’s not tea that I need to make me feel better!” But he left the window without argument and sank gratefully into the pile of cushions that lined his ornate, gilt chair.

Eyeing his master thoughtfully, the count rang a bell, knowing that the servants would arrive within minutes, bringing tea, sandwiches and the little sesame seed cakes that his master so adored.

“The mountain passes have been open for weeks now,” Lord Jezail grumbled. “He should have been here long ago!”

The count lifted his eyebrows as he poured water into a tall glass. So that was what was bothering him. “You’re expecting the Khan of Barazan?” he queried. “You didn’t tell me!”

“He said he would come after the snows had melted in the mountains!” Lord Jezail said grumpily as the count reached for a pillbox. “He’s bringing me more medicine,” he continued, aware of the surprise in his aide’s voice.

“But we are well stocked with your dragon pills, Milord,” Vassili frowned, shaking one from its box as he spoke. “We’ve enough to last you well into the autumn,” he added, offering it to his master with the glass of water. The count’s face was bland but inwardly he felt a touch of concern. During the few years he’d been with his master, he’d seen him in many moods but lately he’d noticed a strange lethargy that puzzled him for, although an elderly man, he’d always been quite active. Vaguely he wondered if it was anything to do with the silver talisman that his master wore round his wrist. It was a talisman that didn’t really belong to him and, as he well knew, such magic tokens had their own way of showing their displeasure. Could it be the talisman that was making the old man sick?

“Dragons’ blood’s all very well,” Lord Jezail snorted, swallowing the pill distastefully, “but quite honestly these pills aren’t really doing me much good. The Khan thinks I’ve become too used to them and the last time he was here, he promised to bring me potions made from dragons’ bile.” He frowned irritably as he gave the glass back to the count. “I only hope he arrives with it before we leave for Scotland,” he muttered.

Vassili’s lips set in a straight line. He was a lot less enthusiastic than his master about the proposed visit to Scotland and had already made his feelings plain. As for dragons’ bile! He cringed at the thought. That was all he needed! Just wait until he saw the Khan of Barazan. He’d have more than a few words to say to him on the subject! Nevertheless, he frowned as he glimpsed the flash of silver on his master’s wrist and wished with all his heart that he’d never brought the talisman back to Ashgar.

It had all started many years ago, when Lord Jezail had given the silver clasp as a gift to his daughter, Merial. When she’d grown up and married a human, however, he’d cast her off entirely and, as far as the count knew, had neither seen nor spoken to her since. It wasn’t, therefore, surprising that on her death, Lady Merial hadn’t returned the talisman to her father, nor given it to the witches who had cared for her when she’d arrived friendless in Scotland; she’d left it instead to a human child, her niece by marriage, Clara MacLean.

Knowing that many people craved its power, her father included, Lady Merial had hidden the talisman, leaving Clara a riddle as a clue to its hiding place. Lord Jezail, furious and determined to get the talisman back, had then sent Count Vassili to Scotland to find it. At the thought, the count’s lips twisted in a wry smile for, despite the problems he’d faced, he’d enjoyed his stay in Scotland. Convinced that the talisman had been hidden somewhere in Netherfield, Clara’s school, he’d taken a post there as a German master and during the course of the term had grown to like both Clara and her brother, Neil. His loyalty, however, had always been to his master and, although he’d have much preferred Clara to keep the talisman, he knew where his duty lay and had taken it back with him to Ashgar.

Even then, he mused sourly, things hadn’t turned out quite as he’d thought. Envisaging some sort of praise for a job well done, his lips tightened as he remembered how, when he’d returned to the citadel, Lord Jezail had casually slipped the talisman on his wrist with barely a word of thanks. No praise or recognition of all the dangers he’d been through! Nothing!

Knowing Lord Jezail as he did, the count almost shrugged. It was, after all, a fairly typical reaction and, he supposed, to be expected; for by the time he’d returned to Ashgar, his master had heard that the fabled Book of Spells had been found and had been so full of excitement that he couldn’t think of anything else! Some said it was the witches who had started the rumour but the fact remained that word had quickly spread throughout the world of magic that the MacArthurs, the faery folk who lived in the depths of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, had somehow managed to lay their hands on it.

The news was enough to send Jezail into raptures. The Book of Spells had been found; and, quite naturally, he wanted it! Indeed, the thought had occupied his mind ever since!

Of course, Vassili thought, looking back on the matter, he should never have said anything about Clara; but the minute his master had mentioned the Book of Spells, he knew that it had been Clara who had found it. The spell she’d used to summon daemons (in the middle of the school concert, for goodness sake) had been uttered in the words of ancient magic. And she had obviously known the spell by heart, for she’d said it confidently, without hesitation. He wished now that he’d kept his mouth shut; for it was that particular piece of information that had given Lord Jezail his big idea. He knew perfectly well that there was little chance of his being able to steal the Book of Spells from the MacArthurs — there was, after all, their dragon to contend with — but if this child had memorized them…

“I know what you’re thinking,” Lord Jezail growled suddenly from the depths of his chair, “but kidnapping this girl is the only way I can get my hands on the spells. She knows them all off by heart. You told me so, yourself.”

The count looked at him warily. Did his feelings show as much as that? If Lord Jezail could read his thoughts with such accuracy, he’d certainly have to be a lot more careful. It wouldn’t do for him to discover the real reason for his presence in the citadel.

Lord Jezail smiled sourly at the count’s expression of dismay. “After all,” he pointed out, “it won’t take her all that long to write the spells down, will it? She wouldn’t be my prisoner for long and …”

A gentle tap on the door announced the arrival of a servant who entered with a tray piled high with cakes and sandwiches. Vassili watched as he set the table and then made haste to serve his master.

Forgetting the Book of Spells, Lord Jezail drew his chair closer to the table. “It’s ridiculous, really, when you think of it,” he groused, his eyes falling on the little box of dragon pills. “Here am I, one of the greatest Dragon Seekers of all time, and look at me! Reduced to this! Waiting — waiting, like a servant, for the Khan to arrive! If he doesn’t come, I’ve a good mind to go out and kill a dragon myself!”

“Well, it would be exciting to say the least, Milord, but I can’t say I recommend it,” the count’s eyes twinkled as he lifted a plate of sandwiches from the table. “You were a lot younger in those days, for a start,” he pointed out, “and a lot fitter. But your deeds, you know, aren’t forgotten. Everyone remembers the great beasts that you slew.”

“Hmmph!” Lord Jezail sounded disgruntled but Vassili’s rare words of praise pleased him, nevertheless. He straightened in his chair, smiling slightly as he reached for a sandwich. “Those were the days, Vassili!” he said dreamily. “Stalking dragons, trailing them through the forests and over the mountains, losing them sometimes when they flew off to that dratted valley …”

The count sighed. He knew what was coming next. He’d heard it all so many times before. Yet, if all the old tales his father had told him were true, then Lord Jezail had, indeed, been a great Dragon Seeker in days of old. So much so that the remaining dragons in the area had eventually taken refuge in a deep, desolate valley, which they had guarded fiercely ever since.

“It’s monstrous!” his master muttered. “That valley’s full of dragons and yet I have to rely on the Khan for my pills!” He leant forward to choose another sandwich. “And pay a fortune for them!” he added, sourly.

Vassili shrugged. “Well, there’s not a lot we can do about it, Milord,” he said, a trifle ruefully as he poured his master’s tea,” unless, of course,” he added teasingly,” you’re really serious about visiting the Valley of the Dragons!”

Jezail looked suddenly grim. “If I weren’t so weak, I’d go tomorrow!” he snapped.

Vassili looked at him sharply, startled at the sudden strength of his tone.

“When I said that the Khan charged a fortune for his dragon pills, I meant it,” his master said bitterly. “Every time he comes, he charges me double. Says they’ve become scarce! And I do need the pills, Vassili! My will might be strong but my body, these days, is old and weak. The dragon pills give me strength! And,” his voice became fretful, “what will happen when his supplies run out? Tell me that, Vassili? If you rule out the Valley of the Dragons, then tell me: where is he going to find more dragons in this day and age?”

The count looked at his master thoughtfully; for Lord Jezail certainly had a point. “I don’t know,” he was forced to admit. “Times have changed, haven’t they? I mean …”

“They used to be ten a penny in the old days,” Lord Jezail said tiredly. “Well, maybe not quite,” he was forced to admit, “but there were a lot of them around.”

Vassili nodded, remembering stories of one particularly ferocious dragon that had roamed the countryside round his father’s castle at Trollsberg. “It couldn’t have been much fun having them prowling round the place,” he said, “but as for killing one … well,” he looked at his master in grudging admiration, “I wouldn’t like to face up to a dragon myself!”

“Having a good sword helped,” the magician answered. “It had to be sharp, of course!”

“May I ask how many dragons you killed?” Vassili asked, genuinely interested.

“Twenty-three,” Lord Jezail said proudly, his good humour restored. “You wouldn’t think so, looking at me now, but I was reckoned one of the best Dragon Seekers of my day! Of course, twenty-three wasn’t the record. That was held by the English knight, Sir Pendar.”

“You can hardly compare yourself to him, though,” Vassili objected, holding out a plate. “He had a magic sword, after all! You didn’t! His job was easy by comparison!”

“That’s true,” Lord Jezail mused, helping himself to a piece of cake. “He killed forty-nine dragons if the old stories are true.”

“And died trying to kill Arthur!”

“Yes, Arthur was to have been his fiftieth kill,” Jezail agreed. “You know the story, then?”

The count nodded. “Well, sort of. I know that the Lords of the North rescued Arthur and that he’s lived with the MacArthurs in Arthur’s Seat ever since …”

“Mmmm,” Lord Jezail bit into the slice of cake. “Sir Pendar’s buried in Edinburgh, too — in the castle rock. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t,” Vassili looked surprised. “In the rock, itself?” he frowned. “How on earth did the townspeople manage that?”

“They didn’t,” Lord Jezail answered. “The Lords of the North hexed his tomb out of the rock and guided the people to it. Once he’d been laid to rest with his sword, horn and flag by his side, they closed the tomb by magic. At least, so the story goes.”

“So he’s still there,” Vassili mused, “after all these years? With his sword and all?”

“As far as I know,” Lord Jezail nodded, putting the last piece of cake in his mouth and waving his hand to indicate that he’d finished eating.

Vassili rose to his feet to summon the servant and, in so doing, missed the strange expression that crossed his master’s face.

Dragonslayer, Lord Jezail thought, a sudden wave of excitement shooting through him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Dragonslayer; the magic sword that could pierce the scales of dragons! As Vassili had just so conveniently pointed out, it was still there … in Edinburgh!

Gripping his hands together to calm his racing mind, he was careful to keep a straight face. Vassili must never suspect. He knew the count. If he got so much as a tiny hint of the scheme that had suddenly flashed through his mind, he’d start putting all sorts of obstacles and objections in the way.

But … to own Dragonslayer! To become a Dragon Seeker once more! The thought was really quite breathtaking and, he realized excitedly, certainly more than possible; for he wouldn’t need his old strength to wield such a wonderful sword. Dragonslayer would slice into a dragon as easily as a knife slides through butter. And, as they were going to Scotland anyway, they could certainly include Edinburgh in their travels. If he failed — well, he wouldn’t be any worse off, but if he were to succeed …

Thoughts of Dragonslayer filled his mind for the rest of the day. Opening the tomb, he thought, might present problems, especially if it had been closed by magic … but, on the other hand, maybe not.

So it was that when night fell and lamps were lit in the town, he stood once again at the high window of the citadel. This time, however, his eyes were blind to the twinkling lights of Stara Zargana or the high peaks of the mountains standing stiffly against the darkening sky; for his mind was full of swords, dragons, magic … and the earthquake that might make all of his dreams come true.