‘You see,’ said Qa, ‘I did swim to the forest. I did find your horse.’
There was a pause.
Really!
This was most difficult!
‘I–I’m sorry I lied to you about the horse,’ said Alfric. ‘But the rest is true. About the poetry, the invitation to Tang. All true.’
‘I wish I could believe you,’ said the dragon. ‘But I can’t. You’re a liar, you see. Never mind, we won’t let that stand in the way of our friendship. Which will last at least until the meal ends. Perhaps you’re in the mood to listen to some more of my poetry. Are you?’
‘Most definitely,’ said Alfric.
So Qa began to recite. On and on went the recitation, the dragon at length abandoning food in favour of unrestricted concentration on poetry.
But it was too late.
For the dragon had already eaten more than it should have done.
And, soon enough, its eyes began to lull, its words became slurred, and it was struggling to keep its balance. Suddenly it fell over to one side. And then was abruptly sick.
‘Oh,’ said Qa, mournfully. ‘I haven’t been sick like that for years. Not since they fed me opium. At a banquet, it was. Done for a joke. There was opium, wasn’t there? In the pork. The bits you fed me.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Alfric.
‘You did well,’ said the dragon. ‘But not quite well enough. I’ve still the strength to kill you, you know. You’d better run while you’ve still got time.’
‘You’re bluffing, I’m afraid,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s more, I know you’re bluffing. Furthermore, it’s time for me to kill you.’
‘Just one thing I ask,’ said the dragon.
‘What’s that?’
‘No lectures, please,’ said Qa. ‘Not while I’m writhing in my death agonies. I couldn’t bear it. Lectures, I mean. About eating children and all that.’
‘Oh, that’s perfectly understandable,’ said Alfric, who detested children. ‘No, I’m not killing you for any moralistic reasons. I’m killing you out of enlightened self-interest. How would you like to be killed?’
‘A blade in the heart would be quickest,’ said Qa, rolling over. ‘Stick it in here.’
So saying, the dragon tapped its belly with a set of talons, indicating the location of the heart. Then it closed its eyes, as if waiting for death.
Alfric cautiously stepped back, away from the dragon. Stealthily he picked up a skull-sized rock. Then tossed it. So it landed on the dragon’s belly.
Instantly the creature exploded into wrathful action, clawing with all four taloned legs, fire ravaging the air as it roared its anger. Then it realized it had been tricked. It had been fooled into expending its best energies on nothing more than a rock. It screamed, incoherent with rage. Scrabbled to its feet. Charged at Alfric.
But stumbled, tricked out of its balance by opium. Slithered. Fell. And Alfric drew his sword and leapt forward, stricking, hacking, slashing, plunging. Then struggling, struggling, struggling to draw out the steel which was stuck in the flesh, flesh he was kicking and cursing.
Badged with blood the ravager at last got free his blade. Then hacked. Then hacked again. Then stepped back to watch his enemy die.
‘It hurts,’ said Qa. ‘It hurts.’
Alfric stood watching, panting harshly.
‘It hurts,’ moaned Qa.
Voice failing, fading.
A wisp of smoke escaped from the dragon’s nostrils. One last firefly-rivalling flicker of fire showed at its mouth. Then it was dead. It was most clearly and obviously dead. Though Alfric nevertheless hacked off its head to be absolutely sure.
And then Then he bathed his hands in one of the puddles, for they had got scorched by fire in the course of the battle, and were very sore.
For a long time he squatted by the cold water, hands engulfed in that darkness. As he waited there, his battle-anger cooled away to nothing, and he was left alone and very lonely. The cave was dark, dark and cold, and very lonely. And Alfric began to weep for the dead dragon and its lonely vigil, and for the bitterness of this cold universe where things lived in holes, crawling forth at intervals to fight each other and die, each yearning for comfort yet afraid to trust the other, the dreaded other which might provide that comfort.
At last Alfric withdrew his hands from the water, cleansed his sword, sheathed his sword, picked up the shrivelled iron of the saga sword Edda, then left the cave. His pack he left behind, and also any and all other treasures which had belonged to the dragon.
Waves were sweeping across the sandstrand which stretched between Thodrun and the shore, either because the seas had got up or because the tide had started to come in while Alfric was in discourse with the dragon. The wind’s icy blast in freezing squalls drove the racing combers with fury, but Alfric plunged into the water, unaffrighted, and struggled toward the shore. Only when he stepped clear of the sea did he realize how close he had come to losing the ironsword Edda to the wrecking waters.
Under the dead stars he walked toward the dunes, icy iron in his hand, bones creaking as his flesh animated itself toward its destination. He felt, at that moment, that he would not have cared even if he had lost the sword. For his guilt was upon him. He had killed, he had slaughtered a poet, and his shame would be upon him for ever. He had murdered Qa. He had been forced to. Because the dragon had not trusted him. If he had not lied about the horse, then he might have won the creature’s trust. The dragon would have gone to Tang, and all would have ended happily ever after.
Instead, Alfric Danbrog would have bitter memories to bear for the rest of his life. But at least he was alive, yes, he was alive, and returning to Galsh Ebrek as a hero.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After killing the sea dragon Qa, Alfric tramped along the coast until he came to an abandoned croft. By that time, the night was nearly at an end. He laid himself down inside the ruinous crofthouse and dropped off into an exhausted sleep.
When Alfric woke, it was still night. Was he at the end of his dragon-fighting night? Or had he slept right through the day to the start of a new night? He could not say, for clouds obscured the sky, denying him the timetelling stars. Regardless of how long he might have slept, he felt weary, his body aching like a resurrected carcass. Pain still dwelt in his dragon-scorched hands, and to this annoyance was added a pressing hunger which he had no means of satisfying.
Hunger-driven, Alfric resumed his journey, at length passing between the Stanch Gates and entering Galsh Ebrek. Then he stopped in the nightmud street, momentarily unsure of how to cope with his many conflicting priorities. He wanted to rest, to eat and to drink; he wanted, also, to signal his success to Saxo Pall; and he should by rights report his successful return to the Bank.
Very well.
He was a Yudonic Knight, was he not?
Of course he was!
With that settled, Alfric backtracked to the Stanch Gates and acted like the Knight he was. He ordered one of the guards to the Bank to deliver a message, and directed another man to take a despatch to Saxo Pall.
‘My lord,’ said one of the men so commanded, ‘where will we look for you if there is a reply to your messages?’
Alfric considered. He didn’t want common guardsmen tramping into his own house.
‘You can leave any reply to my messages at the Green Cricket,’ he said.
A good choice, this, since Anna Blaume was a reliable holder of messages, and since Alfric meant to call round to the inn in any case to check on the progress of the orks.
With duties of communication thus satisfactorily discharged, Alfric took himself off to his own house, where he hoped a meal would be waiting for him. But it was not. Nothing was waiting for him. Not even his wife. Alfric foraged for food, eventually finding and consuming two (cold) baked potatoes and a cup of (equally cold) half-cooked moon beans. Then he went in search of his missing spouse: but his enquiries were fruitless.