Chapter 1

"Dragon!" hissed Islington.

Pentonville scowled at him. "It wasn't funny the first three times. Now it's just annoying."

"Dragon!" hissed Islington again, jabbing his finger at the sky behind them.

Sur Rhyff, the melodic knight who was providing light entertainment during their trek, turned to look. What he saw must have chilled him to the bone, for he dived under a nearby bush and put his hands over his head. Meanwhile, Islington had also taken refuge, leaving Pentonville standing in the open, totally and completely alone.

"There really is a dragon behind me, isn't there?" he said, his voice heavy and resigned.

Only minutes earlier they'd been traipsing through the harsh, rocky countryside, deep in conversation.

"Have you thought about this mission of ours?" Pentonville had asked Islington. "Really thought about it, I mean?"

"I have thought of little else," replied Islington.

"It's insane! Ridiculous! Impossible! We're to travel deep into dragon-infested country, seeking a man of metal so that we might capture him and bring him to Lord Chylde. A man of metal, I might add, who had no trouble snapping the finest manacles in the city dungeon as though they were made of straw."

"It is going to be a bit of a challenge," admitted Islington.

"A bit of a challenge! This quest will be the death of us, and you know it!"

That conversation had taken place only moments earlier, and now it seemed death was even closer than they thought… especially for Pentonville.

Fortunately, the dragon was flying high, and at that altitude it looked more like a large bat than a fearsome killing machine. Unfortunately, aside from their legendary bad temper, legendary cruelty and legendary sense of hearing, dragons also had pretty good eyesight.

So, Pentonville stood rooted to the spot and tried not to look like a ready-to-eat meal.

"It's all right, I think it's gone," whispered Islington, at least twenty or thirty minutes later. Actually, he suspected the dragon had flown off pretty much straight away, but where instant death was concerned he preferred to err on the side of caution. Plus he wasn't absolutely certain it had gone, because the sunlight left dancing spots in his eyes, although none of those spots appeared to have leathery wings and a long bony tail.

Meanwhile, Sur Rhyff emerged from the bushes, dusting himself down. Then, without warning, he burst into song.

There once was a soldier, all devious and cunning,

whose primary defence was ducking and running.

'Til one day a dragon flew over at night,

and our bold friend the hero didst near die of fright.

"It isn't night, it's mid-afternoon," protested Islington.

"Four lines of insulting lyrics, and that's the part you don't like?" said Pentonville sourly.

"I'm so sorry for my mistake," said Sur Rhyff huffily. "Perhaps this version is more to your liking?"

'Til one day a dragon flew over at noon,

and our cowardly hero didst stammer and swoon.

Pentonville said nothing, but his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. Then he remembered the weapon's stunted six-inch blade, and the sergeant's laughter as he'd handed it over just before they'd left the barracks. Sur Rhyff, on the other hand, carried a long, sharp sword made out of shiny new steel, and so Pentonville released the hilt and pretended he'd been going for the water bottle all along. "How far have we travelled, do you think?" he asked the others, once he'd slaked his thirst.

"There are yet three hours until sundown. Maybe fifteen leagues?"

"We should have brought the horses."

Islington shook his head. "You know what that archer said at the watchtower. Dragons love the taste of their flesh." He gestured. "That, and the bushes aren't very big. There's barely enough cover for us, let alone a horse's arse."

"They covered him well enough," said Pentonville, with a nod at Sur Rhyff.

The knight was busy composing his next effort, and chose to ignore the slight.

"So, about our quest," continued Pentonville. "It's incredibly dangerous, our chance of success is nil, and we're obviously going to die."

Islington lowered his voice. "Then we'll deal with this quest the same way we dealt with the last one."

Pentonville frowned. "Last time, we were supposed to kill an assassin."

"Yes, and we went back and told the captain we'd completed the task. Even though we hadn't."

"But we can't go back empty-handed this time! How can we tell the captain we found the metal man, unless we show him the metal man we found?"

"Easy. What if the thing was picked up by a dragon and dropped into the ocean depths? What if two dragons fought over it, and tore the thing apart before our very eyes? Who's to say otherwise?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe some poetry-spewing knight?"

They both turned to look at Sur Rhyff, who was standing some distance away writing on a scrap of parchment. "How about we report two fatal accidents?" suggested Pentonville. "The robot, and…" his voice tailed off, and he nodded meaningfully in Sur Rhyff's direction.

"Sounds like a plan to me."

They shook on it. One more day of fruitless searching, then they'd dispose of Sur Rhyff in the dead of night before heading home to Chatter's Reach, where they'd lie through their teeth about finding — and then losing — the robot.

"Captain Spadell's not going to trust us with any more quests," warned Pentonville.

"Good," said Islington, with feeling. "If he loves quests so much, he can take the next one himself."

— ♦ —

The wind-swept hillside was a grim, barren place, with spindly, twiggy bushes struggling to survive in the rocky soil. A dozen goats grazed on the sparse bushes, every one of them listless and near-death.

The goats weren't exactly bursting with good health, either.

An elderly shepherd stood nearby, leaning on a wooden staff as he watched over his flock. He was a man of few words and even fewer baths, which meant he didn't actually need any words at all, for most of the local villagers gave him a very wide berth.

Behind him, an unbroken expanse of ocean stretched all the way to the horizon.

The shepherd never paid much attention to the ocean. His goats couldn't swim, and the giant sea serpents infesting the deep waters couldn't walk on land. Therefore, the sea was not something he troubled himself with. No, he focussed on the sky, in case of dragons, and the land, in case of wolves, hungry bandits, and annoying little brats from the village, who liked to hide in the rocks and call him Stinky.

"Hey up! Chack chack!" The shepherd knocked the end of his staff on a rock, but the goats recognised his call and moved as one, trotting along the hillside towards the next feeding spot. The shepherd followed more slowly, stooping to collect a stone in case any of the goats decided to tarry. He didn't need to hit them with it, but his aim was good after a lifetime of practice, and the sudden clatter of stone on stone was enough to convince the stragglers it was time to move on.

The goats settled at the next patch of bushes, and soon they were busy tearing off branches and chewing the skinny green leaves. The shepherd leaned on his crook and happened to glance out to sea, which led to a massive double-take. His elbow slipped off the crook, and he was so startled he almost fell over.

Sailing towards him was a fleet of three enormous ships, with towering masts and billowing white sails. Sixty years the shepherd had been eking a meagre living out of the hillside, and never had he seen such a thing.

"Fudd me," he murmured. "What devilry is this?"

The goats hadn't noticed anything amiss, and kept chewing on sticks and branches.

Ten minutes later, the ships stowed their sails and came to a graceful halt, and the rattle of their anchor chains echoed around the cove. Then a small boat set off from one of the huge vessels, with several uniformed men pulling on the oars.

The shepherd eyed his goats, wavering between flight and a warm greeting. The flock was all he had in the world, but if the ships were looking for provisions he might make a pretty penny from their sale. On the other hand, the newcomers might take the goats for nothing… and kill him into the bargain.

The boat grounded on the shore, and half a dozen men leapt into the shallow waters and made their way to the beach, where they adjusted their swords and gleaming helms. Then one of them took out a metal tube and peered through it, slowly taking in the surrounding hills.

As the tube came to bear on him, the shepherd slowly raised a hand in greeting. The officer lowered the tube and frowned, then put it to his eye and looked again. He said something to the others, and everyone drew their swords.

"Oh spit," muttered the shepherd, and his blood ran cold. There was nowhere to run to, and if he fled they'd take his goats anyway.

Then the officer raised his hand and waved back, and the party put away their weapons and started the long climb up the hillside.

Relieved, the shepherd watched and waited.

They arrived moments later, out of breath and sweating. Their leader was a portly man in a red uniform, and after he recovered his breath he spoke in an impatient bark with a decidedly foreign accent. "You there. What land is this?"

The shepherd touched a finger to his forehead. "These be Mollister lands, my good Sur."

"Stalyan territory, then?"

Several men reached for their swords.

"Never heard of no Stalya," said the shepherd. "Mollister, that's what it be."

"There is no such place," snapped the officer. "The truth now, or you will suffer for it."

The shepherd turned to look around, but these were definitely the hills of his birth. "Like I be sayin', these are Queen Therstie Mollister's lands."

The officer turned to the rest of the party. "The old fool… his brain is addled. Karl, return to the ship and set up watch parties on the shore. Find fresh water for the casks."

"Aye aye, sir," said the youngest of the sailors, and he turned and jogged down the hill.

"Osvald, fetch a boat pole and a flag."

"What sort of flag, sir?"

"A Methusian standard, of course. Go now, hurry!" The officer glanced at the old shepherd. "These goats. Do you have more?"

"No sir."

"How much for the flock?"

The shepherd thought for a moment. Normally he'd get three shillings each, but the ships were large and the uniforms looked expensive. "They're good animals, none finer," he said, as an opening gambit.

"They are scrawny, ill-fed and covered in fleas."

"I'll take five guineas the lot," said the shepherd.

"What is a guinea?"

The shepherd had never seen one either, but he'd heard tales. "It be a gold coin, Sur."

"Fine. Two gold florins."

"Three."

"This is acceptable."

The officer reached into his coin purse and passed over three large coins, which clinked in the shepherd's outstretched hand. As he felt the weight of the gold, he knew he'd never have to tend goats or walk the windswept hills again. He also knew he ought to walk away while the going was good, but curiosity got the better of him. "Sur, from which kingdom do you hail?"

"I bow to no king," said the officer sharply. Then he relented. "I hail from the all-powerful nation of Methusia, let there be no better."

"Let there be no better," murmured the rest of the party.

At that moment Osvald came running up with a long wooden pole and a folded flag. He handed the flag to the officer, who then indicated a spot with the toe of his shiny leather boot. The sailor rammed the pole into the earth… or at least, he tried to. It struck the flinty soil and bounced, jarring his wrists.

"Poor soil in these parts," remarked the shepherd. "I could sell you a pick," he added hopefully.

"Use your cutlass," said the officer, and the sailor obeyed. After ten minutes he'd made a shallow hole, into which he rested the end of the pole. Then he scraped the loose dirt in and tamped it down.

Meanwhile, the officer had unfolded an elaborate gilt-edged flag adorned with a mighty eagle. He fastened the flag to the pole, and then he and the rest of the party saluted. "I claim this land for Methusia," said the officer.

"Let there be no better," murmured the others.

The shepherd said nothing. He'd never met Queen Therstie, or any other Mollister for that matter, but he was pretty sure she'd not take kindly to strangers showing up to claim her lands. There was going to be trouble, that much was clear, and he decided to take his three gold coins and emigrate as soon as possible.

"Tell me, old man, what strength is the local garrison?"

"Chatter's Reach is two days walk from here. They have dozens and dozens of soldiers."

The officer smiled. "A mere handful, eh? And their cannon?"

"Their what?"

"Guns, sir. Heavy guns. How many?"

"What's a gun?"

The officer stared at him. "Either you're truly soft in the head, or this land is ripe for plucking."

"Queen Therstie ain't going to sit still for none of that nonsense," declared the old man. Then he remembered all the whispers about the queen plucking just about anything on two legs, and he amended his statement. "She might lie down for it, mind."

"Your Queen will beg on her knees when she witnesses our overwhelming force," declared the Methusian. He turned to the bay and signalled to the fleet. Instantly, there was a puff of white smoke from the bows of a ship, followed by a loud boom. A split second later the hillside further round the cove erupted in a violent explosion of shattered rocks and dust.

Seeing the shepherd's expression, the officer smiled and spread his arms wide to encompass the bay. "You'll note my supremely powerful fleet, consisting of three—"

At that moment the calm waters around the nearest vessel erupted, and a big angry sea serpent, disturbed by the cannon fire, wrapped itself around the nearest vessel. There was an ear-splitting crunch as the hull gave way, and seconds later the two halves had vanished under the waves.

"My two heavily armed warships," finished the captain, without missing a beat.

Before the shepherd could respond, a massive shadow flitted across the hillside, and the goats scattered, bleating wildly. The shepherd looked up to see an enormous grey shape rising into the sky, flapping its huge leathery wings until it was a speck against the overwhelming brightness of the afternoon sun. Then it dived on the bay, and there was a terrible roar as a fifty foot jet of dragonfire torched one of the two remaining ships.

Satisfied, the dragon soared high into the sky and vanished to the west.

The captain's face was expressionless as the vessel burned from stem to stern, while the last intact ship hauled up its anchor and threw on just enough sail to get clear of its burning twin. Then, with a boom that knocked the newly-planted flagpole over, the burning ship exploded. Flaming timbers rained down across the still waters of the bay, fortunately missing the third and final ship.

Unfortunately, it was now travelling quite fast, and the wind blew it directly onto the sharp rocks at the far side of the cove.

"This Queen Therstie of yours," said the Methusian officer, as his last remaining ship rolled over and sank. "Would she be amenable to a peace treaty?"