They continued in silence. This time Axl and Beatrice did not fall behind, for a sense of solemnity seemed to descend on Gawain and Wistan, making them proceed in front at an almost ceremonial pace. In any case, the ground had become less demanding, levelling to something like a plateau. The rocks they had discussed from below now loomed before them, and Axl could see, as they came ever nearer, how they were arranged in a rough semi-circle around the top of a mound to the side of their path. He could see too how a row of smaller stones rose in a kind of stairway up the side of the mound, leading right up to the rim of what could only be a pit of significant depth. The grass all around where they had now arrived seemed to have been blackened or burnt, lending the surroundings — already without tree or shrub — an atmosphere of decay. Gawain, bringing the party to a halt near where the crude stairway began, turned to face Wistan with some deliberation.
“Will you not consider a last time, sir, leaving this dangerous plan? Why not return now to your orphan tied to his stick? There’s his voice in the wind even now.”
The warrior glanced back the way they had come, then looked again at Sir Gawain. “You know it, sir. I cannot turn back. Show me this dragon.”
The old knight nodded thoughtfully, as though Wistan had just made some casual but fascinating observation.
“Very well, friends,” he said. “Then keep your voices low, for what purpose should we wake her?”
Sir Gawain led the way up the side of the mound and on reaching the rocks signalled for them to wait. He then peered over carefully, and after a moment, beckoned to them, saying in a low voice: “Come stand along here, friends, and you’ll see her well enough.”
Axl helped his wife onto a ledge beside him, then leant over one of the rocks. The pit below was broader and shallower than he had expected — more like a drained pond than something actually dug into the ground. The greater part of it was now in pale sunlight, and seemed to consist entirely of grey rock and gravel — the blackened grass finishing abruptly at the rim — so that the only living thing visible, aside from the dragon herself, was a solitary hawthorn bush sprouting incongruously through the stone near the centre of the pit’s belly.
As for the dragon, it was hardly clear at first she was alive. Her posture — prone, head twisted to one side, limbs outspread — might easily have resulted from her corpse being hurled into the pit from a height. In fact it took a moment to ascertain this was a dragon at alclass="underline" she was so emaciated she looked more some worm-like reptile accustomed to water that had mistakenly come aground and was in the process of dehydrating. Her skin, which should have appeared oiled and of a colour not unlike bronze, was instead a yellowing white, reminiscent of the underside of certain fish. The remnants of her wings were sagging folds of skin that a careless glance might have taken for dead leaves accumulated to either side of her. The head being turned against the grey pebbles, Axl could see only the one eye, which was hooded in the manner of a turtle’s, and which opened and closed lethargically according to some internal rhythm. This movement, and the faintest rise and fall along the creature’s backbone, were the only indicators that Querig was still alive.
“Can this really be her, Axl?” Beatrice said quietly. “This poor creature no more than a fleshy thread?”
“Yet look there, mistress,” Gawain’s voice said behind them. “So long as she’s breath left, she does her duty.”
“Is she sick or perhaps already poisoned?” asked Axl.
“She simply grows old, sir, as we all must do. But she still breathes, and so Merlin’s work lingers.”
“Now a little of this comes back to me,” Axl said. “I remember Merlin’s work here and dark it was too.”
“Dark, sir?” said Gawain. “Why dark? It was the only way. Even before that battle was properly won, I rode out with four good comrades to tame this same creature, in those days both mighty and angry, so Merlin could place this great spell on her breath. A dark man he may have been, but in this he did God’s will, not only Arthur’s. Without this she-dragon’s breath, would peace ever have come? Look how we live now, sir! Old foes as cousins, village by village. Master Wistan, you fall silent before this sight. I ask again. Will you not leave this poor creature to live out her life? Her breath isn’t what it was, yet holds the magic even now. Think, sir, once that breath should cease, what might be awoken across this land even after these years! Yes, we slaughtered plenty, I admit it, caring not who was strong and who weak. God may not have smiled at us, but we cleansed the land of war. Leave this place, sir, I beg you. We may pray to different gods, yet surely yours will bless this dragon as does mine.”
Wistan turned away from the pit to look at the old knight.
“What kind of god is it, sir, wishes wrongs to go forgotten and unpunished?”
“You ask it well, Master Wistan, and I know my god looks uneasily on our deeds of that day. Yet it’s long past and the bones lie sheltered beneath a pleasant green carpet. The young know nothing of them. I beg you leave this place, and let Querig do her work a while longer. Another season or two, that’s the most she’ll last. Yet even that may be long enough for old wounds to heal for ever, and an eternal peace to hold among us. Look how she clings to life, sir! Be merciful and leave this place. Leave this country to rest in forgetfulness.”
“Foolishness, sir. How can old wounds heal while maggots linger so richly? Or a peace hold for ever built on slaughter and a magician’s trickery? I see how devoutly you wish it, for your old horrors to crumble as dust. Yet they await in the soil as white bones for men to uncover. Sir Gawain, my answer’s unchanged. I must go down into this pit.”
Sir Gawain nodded gravely. “I understand, sir.”
“Then I must ask you in turn, sir knight. Will you leave this place to me and return now to your fine old stallion awaits you below?”
“You know I cannot, Master Wistan.”
“It’s as I thought. Well then.”
Wistan came past Axl and Beatrice, and down the rough-hewn steps. When he was once more at the foot of the mound, he looked around him and said, in a quite new voice: “Sir Gawain, this earth looks curious here. Can it be the she-dragon, in her more vigorous days, blasted it this way? Or does lightning strike here often to burn the ground before new grasses return?”
Gawain, who had followed him down the mound, also came off the steps, and for a moment the two of them strolled about randomly like companions pondering at which spot to pitch their tent.
“It’s something always puzzled me too, Master Wistan,” Gawain was saying. “For even when younger, she remained above, and I don’t suppose it’s Querig made this blasted ground. Perhaps it was always thus, even when we first brought her here and lowered her into her lair.” Gawain tapped his heel experimentally on the soil. “A good floor, sir, nevertheless.”
“Indeed.” Wistan, his back to Gawain, was also testing the ground with his foot.
“Though perhaps a little short in width?” remarked the knight. “See how that edge rolls over the cliffside. A man who fell here would rest on friendly earth, sure enough, yet his blood may run swiftly through these burnt grasses and over the side. I don’t speak for you, sir, but I’ll not fancy my insides dripping over the cliff like a gull’s white droppings!”
They both laughed, then Wistan said:
“A needless worry, sir. See how the ground lifts slightly before the cliff there. As for the opposite edge, it’s too far the other way and plenty of thirsty soil first.”
“That’s well observed. Well, then, it’s no bad spot!” Sir Gawain looked up at Axl and Beatrice, who were still up on the ledge, though now with their backs to the pit. “Master Axl,” he called cheerfully, “you were always the great one for diplomacy. Do you care to use your fine eloquence now to let us leave this place as friends?”