Grummore looked at the village in the middle of the valley nestled beneath a shroud of soft snow. A small watercourse wound its way from east to west, spilling down the side of a rocky hill and emptying into a frozen pond where children played. He watched the children for a moment, knowing they’d follow once they saw the wagon — calling and screaming as they always did — and he smiled at the thought. He could see ice covered stones reflecting the early twilight as smoke whispered out of the squat hovels, hanging over the valley like a sharp, blue cloud. It was a small village — forty sod and turf huts close upon each other — with a muddy, snow-covered track that might have been a lane leading from hovel to hovel. In the centre of the village were a smithy and a large open barn where a dozen cows absently ate the stored up hay and grain. There was a pigsty with a large sow off to the left, while goats and chickens roamed free. A large group of villagers stood in front of the smithy arguing. In the centre of the group stood two figures, obviously outsiders judging by their strange dress.
The man in the centre stood a good deal taller than any of the men around him. He held a wood and iron staff that looked more like a spear than a walking stick. Capped off with a large crystal, it glowed with a light of its own in the near twilight. He carried a long, thin, wooden box on his back that may have been a pack. Grummore could see a long, peppery beard, tied up with tiny shards of bone hanging down its length and ending below his waist. He wore a hooded mantle draped about his shoulders like a cape, before throwing the hood back and revealing his face as he walked through the crowd.
I know this man, Grummore thought.
The second stranger stood silent, unmoving, the cowl and mantle covering the unseen features except for a pair of extraordinary, glowing eyes that appeared to burn in the half-light.
“Don’t say a word,” Ector said, turning to look at Grummore. “Let me do the talking,” he cautioned him under his breath. “And don’t say nothing about no dragons, or any other such nonsense,” he added.
He pulled the reins in gently, looking at both Geoffrey and Grummore. “Are ye listening to me?”
“Who are they?” Geoffrey asked, ignoring Ector and looking at the two strangers.
“I ken the man,” Grummore said softly, and then shook his head. “But nae the t’other.”
“Ye ken him?” Ector said, turning to look at Grummore. “From this far?”
“Aye,” the old man nodded.
“And? Who is he?” Geoffrey asked.
“T’was in his youth by the Merlin arretted — ”
“What?” Geoffrey asked. “Why does he have to talk like that? I don’t understand the half of what he says.”
“He was the Merlin’s man,” Ector said, watching the crowd gathered around the two. He looked toward the frozen pond. “Here come the wee ones,” he said, urging the horse ahead.
“Aye,” was all Grummore said.
“The Merlin’s man? You mean the Merlin?” Geoffrey said. “Arthur’s Merlin? And what does he mean by him being ‘his man’? He was his helper? His apprentice? Are you telling me Merlin had an apprentice?”
“His name wasn’t Merlin; it’s a Druid title,” Ector said.
“Methought ‘e betook ‘isself to the Paynim lands overthwart Hadry’s Wall,” Grummore said softly.
“He means the Roman Wall, doesn’t he? Hadrian’s Wall? Is that what he means? That he thought he was on the other side of Hadrian’s Wall?” Geoffrey asked.
“Aye,” Grummore said, nodding. He sat strangely silent as Ector pulled up on the reins again.
“What is it, Gran?”
Grummore shook his head. No good will come of this day. “An orgulous rogue bent on pillin’ the Darker Arts, he was,” Grummore said, heaving a large sigh. “T’was how Nimue piked ‘im away an’ over-led ‘im; how that ‘e brought the Merlin to her account.”
“Then why show up here?” Geoffrey asked, turning to Ector who was looking at him with a quizzical expression. “What? I know what a rogue is — I’ve heard that enough times in my life — and I understand what the Dark Arts are. The rest I filled in. I get the idea your Gran didn’t much care for the man, or this woman — Nimue, or whatever her name is.”
“T’was his shenship led the Merlin to the Crystal Caves, an’ Nimue,” Grummore said.
“Shenship?”
“Disgrace,” Ector said, urging the horse forward again.
“Aye,” Grummore said, watching the children.
The children — at least a dozen Grummore noted — were silent in their approach, high-stepping their way through the frozen snow and surrounding the wagon.
They’re not calling out to us like other children do whenever we enter a village. It’s the dragon, he told himself, these people live in the shadow of fear.
A man stepped away from the crowd, holding his hands up as the rest of the crowd eyed the wagon with suspicion. Grummore nodded, smiling at the man; he looked over the crowd, scanning the hard faces of the men and women.
What are they so afraid of?
Geoffrey peeked through the tarp as the man began walking around the wagon. When he neared the side of the wagon, the man paused to read the faded words painted on the wagon’s flank. Moving to the back, he reached out a hand and touched the battered shield hanging off the tailgate. Grummore watched as the man came around to the other side of the wagon, looking up at the limp flag hanging from the pole and scratching his whiskered chin. Geoffrey made his way to the front of the wagon, poking his head out of the tarp.
There was a moment of silence before the man spoke.
“We don’t take too kindly to strangers in these parts — and certainly not your kind.”
“If ye’d extend yer hand, we’d not be strangers, would we?” Ector smiled.
“Certes, are ye be-thinkin’ us as bawdy, or boistous errants?” Grummore asked. “Everych of ye would fain abide — ”
“What do you want?” the man asked of a sudden, ignoring the proffered hand Ector held out and looking squarely at Grummore.
“We’re traveling men — my Gran and I,” Ector said slowly, sitting up straighter and looking out over the crowd.
The man laughed. “I’ve had some book learnin’ in my youth, lad. I might not speak in the Popish tongue, but I’ve had enough of it to know what it says on the side of your wagon,” he added, pointing at the faded words.
“T’is my Gran’s doin’. He’s done a lot o’ things o’er the years. A man has to make a living, he’s always sayin’ to me.”
“And the other?” the man asked, nodding at Geoffrey.
“A trav’ler beset on by wayfarers,” Ector said dismissively. “We’ve nae money t’ offer ye, but we’re willin’ t’ trade ye a lifetime of m’ Gran’s stories for victuals, an’ p’rhaps a tankard of ale,” Ector added with a smile.
“Trade stories for ale?” the man said, an ironic smile touching the edge of his lips. “Are you minstrels? We don’t take kindly to minstrels; we don’t take too kindly to storytellers, neither. In fact, it might be best if you moved on. The next village, they might be more inclined to paying you with food — moreso than we are. But you won’t want to be traveling through these parts without first paying the tax,” the man said slowly.
“Tax? I just said we’ve nae money t’ offer ye, an’ now ye be tellin’ me ye’re chargin’ us a tax,” Ector said, unconsciously touching the three shell fragments in the pocket of his jerkin. “How much is this tax?”
“It’s outrageous, boy! Don’t pay it,” the stranger cried out, forcing his way through the villagers.
“And who be this then?” Ector asked the man.
“Sir Grummore,” the stranger said with an embellished bow.
It made Grummore happy to see the man was all but bald -— nothing more than a few wisps of snow-white hair. He remembered him as a vain man, his long hair carefully braided, scented, and clean.
Grummore forced a smile.
“Bayard.”
“You two old codgers know one another?” the man asked.
“This is Sir Grummore Grummerson,” Bayard said before Grummore could speak. “The last living knight of Arthur’s Table. Sir Grummore Grummerson of Inverness Castle. The only Scots knight to sit at Arthur’s hand.”
“A knight?” the man said; there was laughter in his voice as he turned to the other villagers behind him. The children stood silenced by the idea of seeing a real knight of the Round Table.
“Am I to take it these men are your squires then?” he asked.
“‘E’s my Gran,” Ector said, “an’ ye’d do well not t’ mock ‘im.”
“My forgiveness,” the man said, bowing deeply and sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture. Grummore could sense the anger in Ector and put a hand on the young man’s knee
The man turned to Bayard.
“I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“Bayard,” the man said.
“And were you a knight in Arthur’s court as well?”
Bayard shook his head.
Ector called out. “What’s this tax yer callin’ down on us? Are the fields that lax ye can only post a profit chargin’ ever’ man what travels on the road with a Head Tax?”
“They call it a Dragon Tax,” Bayard called out.
“A what?”
“For two pennies, they’ll take you to a hidden trail where you won’t get eaten by the dragon. If you don’t pay the tax, and take to the road, they can’t guarantee your life.”
“A dragon!” Ector laughed. “An’ were ye ‘bout t’ pay the tax, then?”
“On the contrary!” Bayard said.
“T’is come to slay the dragon we are,” Grummore said to the crowd.
*
“Slay the dragon!” Ector said. “‘Ave ye gone t’ yer dotage, old man?” he asked, turning to look at Geoffrey for reenforcement.
“Aye. Have you?” Geoffrey echoed.
“T’is what needs be done,” Grummore said, poking at the fire under the stewing pot.
They were camped on the outskirts of the village, under the leeward cover of several withered aspens that served as a partial windbreak. Snow covered the pastures, laying thick against the trees and covering the surrounding hills with a soft, smooth, blanket of white that concealed the countryside. The moon appeared along the horizon as a tiny slip of light among the stars in a darkening sky, slipping in and out of the clouds as if it were hiding from the world.
Grummore sat silent, his furrowed brow drawn deep in thought as he poked aimlessly at the fire, the sparks flittering into the darkness about them. His face glowed in the light of the fire, the heavy lines and wrinkles casting shadows across his ancient features. He was staring at a single post sticking out of the ground in the middle of a fenced enclosure across the way.
“‘T’is what needs be done?’ Aye Gran, and why, by your reasoning, is that? That’s what you said when you slew the horse. How do you think you’re going to slay a dragon? A dragon, by all that’s holy!”
“T’is nae fer ye t’ be over-worryin’ that, lad,” Grummore said slowly. “Now, wherefore d’ye s’pose that post is out there?”
“Post? What post?” Ector cried out.
“Perhaps I can say?” Bayard asked, stepping out of the shadows and into the fire’s light before lowering the cowl of his robe.
“Ah, yes...the sorcerer’s apprentice, is it?” Ector asked, turning to look at Grummore.
“Bayard,” Grummore said.
“Yes, Bayard. Do come and enjoy the fire, in fact, join us,” Ector added, a hint of mockery in his voice. He bowed deeply, sweeping the ground with his hand as if he were greeting royalty. “Prithee, say thee now, what of yonder post?”
“It’s for the dragon,” Bayard said, smiling at both Ector and Geoffrey. “They tie their sacrifices to it once they’ve made their choice; that way, the dragon doesn’t tear into the rest of the herd.”
“The dragon?” Ector said doubtfully.
“Meligaunt,” the man said.
“Ah yes, Meligaunt,” Ector said, turning to look at Geoffrey. “Every dragon should have a name, I say. And yet, through all these years, and all our travels, I’ve never once heard the name. Have you?”
Geoffrey shook his head slowly.
“And Vortigern?” a second voice asked from the shadows beyond the light of the fire. Ector turned to look at a figure standing in the shadows beside the wagon. “Do you know the tale of Vortigern?”
“I took her for a lad,” Geoffrey said to Ector, who shrugged in explanation. “I thought you were a boy,” he said to her.
“A mage,” she corrected him.
“The Apprentice’s apprentice, no doubt,” Ector said.
“She’s well versed in dragon lore.” Bayard said. “Her Gran rode with me for thirty years, and together we brought down many a mighty beast.”
“‘Many a mighty beast’?” Ector smiled. “I like the sounds of that. Are you dragon slayers?” he asked. “Like Gran and me?”
Geoffrey laughed.
“Is it proof you want?” Bayard asked.
“Do you know what? I do!” Ector said mockingly.
“T’is Vortigern’s beast, I wist,” Grummore said to the girl, and she nodded.
“Who is Vortigern?” Ector asked, looking at Geoffrey.
“Vortigern is the Forgotten King,” Bayard said. “He stole the throne from Ambron his brother, by inviting the Picts and Saxons to fight for him. When Ambron raised an army, Vortigern had Ambron poisoned, and commanded his engineers to construct a tower that could withstand an army and a siege. He gave the engineers one hundred days to complete it, or else he’d have them killed — ”
“Yet, even as they lay the foundations,” the girl said from the shadows of her cowl, “every night the work tumbled into ruin. The engineers begged Vortigern do something, and he called his magicians. They worked their spells and incantations, and declared nothing could be done until they found a child not born of mortal man—to sprinkle his blood on the foundation stones — ”
“‘A child not born of mortal man’?” Ector asked, somewhat sceptical. “And what sort of a bairn would that be?”
“Aye,” Bayard replied slowly, levelling his gaze at Ector. “A child born of magic; a Fairy mother, and a mortal father.”
“Of course,” Ector mocked. “And they found such a child?”
“The Merlin,” the girl said. “But no sooner was he brought before the king, than he himself asked why. ‘My magicians begged me seek a child not born of mortal man, that they might sprinkle the foundation stones with this child’s blood,’ Vortigern said. And the Merlin told Vortigern to order his magicians before him that he might convict them of a lie.
“Vortigern was astonished, but ordered his magicians to sit before the child. He cried to them, ‘Because ye know not what hinders the foundations of this castle, ye’ve told the king my blood will cement it, as if it would avail. Tell me, what is it that lies below the ground, for surely something underneath will not suffer the tower to stand.’
“The wizards made no answer. The Merlin said to the king, ‘I pray thee Lord that workmen be ordered to dig into the ground, ‘til they come to a great pool of water.’
“This was done, and a pool discovered beneath the surface of the ground.
“The Merlin turned to the mages once more and said, ‘Tell me, what lies beneath the pool?’ But the magicians were silent. The Merlin praised the king, and said that he should drain the pool. At the bottom, he would find two Dragons sleeping; at night, they woke to fight and tear at one another. With their great struggle, all the ground shivered and shook, casting down the tower, which is why it could not find a secure foundation.
“The king ordered the pool drained, and there, at the bottom lay two Dragons, sleeping, just as the Merlin declared. And at night — as Vortigern and his magicians watched — the two Dragons, the one White and the other Red, rose up and came at one another with fire on their breath. And first, the White Dragon had the advantage over the Red, chasing it to the end of the pool; but the Red Dragon turned back upon his foe and renewed the combat, forcing the White Dragon to retire in turn. In the end, the Red Dragon was defeated, and the White Dragon disappeared, but no man knew where.”
“And of course,” Ector said, unconvinced, “this is that dragon? Ye did say t’was a white dragon, Geoffrey?”
“Aye,” the thief said slowly.
“Meligaunt,” the girl said softly. “The last and greatest of that race of beasts.”