“Read the article again,” demanded the sword.
Count Vassili looked up at Dragonslayer with raised eyebrows and, taking a deep breath, glanced across at Lord Jezail to see if he agreed.
He’d been totally flabbergasted when his master had appeared with the sword in his hand and utterly furious that he hadn’t discussed it with him beforehand. This, more than anything else, made him uneasy for, in the past, Lord Jezail had always shared his plans and ideas with him. This time there had been nothing and he wasn’t at all happy at the thought of losing his confidence. He shuddered slightly. If Lord Jezail could go ahead and do this without breathing a word to him, what would he get up to next?
All in all, he sighed, the whole trip was proving more than a bit of a nightmare. The easiest part had been setting up their headquarters, here, in the ruins of an isolated old Border keep, a few miles from the MacLean’s house on the outskirts of Coldstream.
It hadn’t taken long to make it comfortable; a few hexes here and there had transformed the barren ruin into a very comfortable residence. Tapestries covered the bare walls, carpets covered the stone flagstones that paved the floor, comfortable armchairs were dotted here and there and the huge open chimney now housed a roaring fire that kept the chill at bay.
The sword, at its own request, had been fixed to the wall above the fireplace and from there it issued its commands. Vassili sighed but said nothing, knowing that his master, too, had his doubts about Dragonslayer. One minute he was triumphant at having found it and the next, seething with temper at its demands. Always eccentric, he was proving more difficult to manage by the day.
Jezail frowned at the sword’s words and looked across at the count. “Oh, for goodness sake, do what it says and read it again,” he snapped, his voice sharp with ill-concealed anger.
Picking up the Scotsman, the count folded it to the page where the tournament was advertised in bold letters. He was wishing now that he’d never mentioned it, but the sword had been in such a bad temper over the past few days that he’d thought the news of the proposed tournament might cheer it up. He’d also read the bit about Sir Pendar’s tomb; the excitement it had caused and how visitors were pouring into Edinburgh from all over the world to see it.
As it happened, the sword hadn’t been really all that impressed. It knew, of course, that the sword the soldiers had found in Sir Pendar’s tomb was the replica it, itself, had conjured up and shrugged, totally uninterested to hear that it was now on display in Edinburgh Castle. Vassili’s mention of the tournament, however, was something else! Memories of days long ago flooded through its mind: Old England, where knights lived in castles and troubadours and jesters entertained at court; lovely ladies in beautiful dresses; the thud of horses’ hooves on the turf; the clash of swords and the shine of armour. Those were the days!
“By the way,” Lord Jezail said, stretching his legs lazily in front of the fire, “where is this tournament going to be held?”
It was then that Count Vassili uttered what proved to be fateful words. “On the slopes of Arthur’s Seat!” he said casually.
The sword said nothing for quite a few seconds and then glowed an exquisite shade of gold as the full meaning of his words hit home. The tournament, it thought, revelling in a mixture of deep contentment, flaring excitement and mouth-watering anticipation, was going to be held on the slopes of Arthur’s Seat!
How long, how very long, had it waited, cooped up in that wretched tomb, for just such an opportunity as this? How often had it dreamt of finishing off that pathetic excuse for a dragon? And on Arthur’s Seat, itself! He would be close, so close to the dragon! Close enough to draw it out of its lair and then … and then …
“We will take part in the tournament,” the sword said in a voice that brooked no argument.
Lord Jezail and Vassili exchanged glances.
“You know Sir Pendar’s story!” the sword almost snapped. “The dragon was mine and I was deprived of my prey! But this time,” it gloated, “there will be no mistake. I will draw it out of Arthur’s Seat and it will face me again; for you, Lord Jezail, will be holding me in your hand and I will make sure that I pierce its heart! Besides which,” it added in a more business-like tone, “it will be good practice for you when we get to your Valley of the Dragons!”
Lord Jezail’s face changed at the sword’s words. Frail as he was, he leapt to his feet, quite consumed with excitement. “Wonderful,” he agreed, his face shining. “A sort of practice run! Just the thing!”
Vassili blinked and swallowed hard. “Master,” he implored, trying to keep his voice steady, “please don’t be too hasty. You know perfectly well that the Lords of the North will never let anything happen to Arthur and … and well, you haven’t been in the best of health lately, have you? I mean, riding in a tournament …” His voice petered out as the enormity of the situation hit him.
“The high and mighty Lords of the North know nothing of what happened in Edinburgh,” Lord Jezail replied dismissively, resuming his seat. “They think that Dragonslayer is in Edinburgh Castle and, by this time, I bet they’ll have put a hex on it that would stop an army in its tracks! No, Vassili, the sword is right.” He rubbed his hands together and a triumphant smile curled his lips. “It’ll be fantastic! We’ll certainly give the newspapers something to write about!” He bowed low to the sword. “Between us, we’ll kill a real dragon!”
“And Clara?” the count asked, hoping to divert his thoughts from the tournament. “What about her? Aren’t you going to kidnap her anymore?”
“Yes, yes, of course we are. The tournament isn’t taking place for a while yet. We’ve plenty of time to kidnap Clara. In fact,” and here he looked up at the sword, “we were talking about it last night and Dragonslayer has come up with a wonderful idea.”
Count Vassili’s heart sank. “What, exactly, did Dragonslayer ‘come up with’, Milord?”
“Well, it’s a long time since it’s been able to use its magic and it thought of conjuring up a Gra’el!” he finished excitedly.
“A Gra’el?” Astonishment mingled with a look of extreme disgust flashed across Vassili’s face; for Gra’els were the vultures of the world of magic. Scavenging on the flesh of dead dragons, they were huge, black, ugly birds with long necks and cruel, curved beaks. “You can’t possibly use a Gra’el to kidnap Clara,” he said forcefully. “Not a Gra’el! There are lots of other ways! I mean …”
Lord Jezail leapt to his feet, looking furious. “You forget yourself, Count Vassili,” he snarled angrily. “Kindly leave us! Now! At once!”
The sword hissed softly with pleasure. It knew that the count hated it and smiled inwardly. How wonderful it would be to call up a Gra’el again; for one of its greatest pleasures had been the sight of the dreadful bird, beak agape, swooping hungrily over the carcasses of dead dragons.
The count, rather white about the lips, bowed low to the magician and to the sword and left the room, his mind in turmoil as his growing suspicions suddenly became certainties. It was the sword’s doing! Lord Jezail had many faults but he knew his master of old. In days gone by, he’d never have dreamt of calling up such a monster to catch a child!
The maid saw him as he passed the kitchen door. “Count Vassili,” she asked nervously seeing the grim set of his lips, “is the master alright? I mean, he hasn’t been ill again, has he?”
“Lord Jezail’s fine,” he answered sourly. “I’m just a bit fed up at the moment.”
“The sword?” she queried.
He nodded grimly. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into all this, Maria,” he said wearily. “Things aren’t turning out quite the way I expected!”
“Isn’t the girl coming?” she asked in surprise.
“She’ll be here soon, by the sound of things,” he replied, forcing a smile. “Clara’s a nice girl,” he added. “If … if, by any chance, I’m not around, you must look after her well. Do you understand?”
“But … why wouldn’t you be here?” she looked alarmed. “I don’t want to be alone with the master,” she whispered. “He … frightens me with his bad temper.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Maria,” he assured her. “I just wanted you to know in case … well, in case anything happens.”
She smiled and nodded, only partly reassured. It had seemed like a great adventure when the count had asked her to travel with them to Scotland to look after a young girl. Now she was starting to wish she hadn’t agreed to it. Count Vassili, too, was nervous and that worried her more than anything.