1

XANTILOR


How big is a dragon? Tor did not know, but she was about to find out.

Her horse stepped through misty drifts of bluebells at the edge of the forest. As she emerged from dappled shade she saw Kallarven Castle, as big as a walled town, its mellow stone covered in ivy, peaceful in the morning sunshine. It was set on gently rising ground, which would not seem gentle to soldiers fighting their way up it in full armour against enemy arrows. Swans glided on the moat, and swallows wheeled above its turrets.

Sprawling across its drawbridge was the dragon.

It was bigger than Tor had thought possible. She’d guessed it might be two or three times the size of a horse. She had been wrong. Its massive body was covered in dull brown scales, tiny on its head and large on its torso, dwindling again towards its tail. Graduated triangular spines ran along its backbone, and the long coiled tail had double spines at the tip like an arrowhead. It was curled up, wings folded, and appeared to be asleep.

Tor told herself that so large a creature would lack manoeuvrability. With extreme caution she coaxed her horse quietly up to the dragon to have a closer look. There was no getting away from it, it was enormous. She should have brought her lance rather than her spear. Too late now. Just how far would it be able to shoot flames? Retreat was not an option; Tor had come to defeat the dragon, and that was what she would do. She supposed she could attack it while it was sleeping…this might be her best chance, but she could not make up her mind to do something so unfair.

The dragon opened its eyes, regarded Tor, and spoke.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

The sun flashed on Tor’s spear as she levelled it.

‘You can talk!’

‘An astute observation,’ said the dragon, squinting and turning its head. ‘Your spear's reflecting the sunlight right into my eyes. Do put it away.’

‘I think not.'

‘Then perhaps you could tilt it differently?’

Tor adjusted the angle of her spear, which seemed to satisfy the dragon. Its large head moved on its snaky neck until it was a few feet from hers. Her horse tensed and pranced to one side. The pupils of the dragon’s eyes, black against golden irises, were neither vertical like a cat’s, nor horizontal like a goat’s, but in the shape of a three-pointed star. They enlarged slightly even as she stared into them. Tor backed her horse, ready to move quickly.

‘My name is Xantilor. What is yours?’

‘Tor, short for Torbrek,’ said Tor, keeping a wary eye on the dragon. She tried to establish some ground rules. ‘Are you going to breathe fire at me?’

‘We can come to that later, if you like. I’ll give you plenty of warning – follow the usual rules of engagement. But first, Tor, tell me a little about yourself. Why have they sent a girl this time?’

‘They didn’t send me, I volunteered. And how do you know I’m a girl? Nobody else has noticed.’

It was disconcerting that he had immediately seen beyond the male attire and armour she was wearing. Tor had grown used, in the past month, to passing as a man.

‘That is because they are men and see what they expect to see. These days girls do not ride, or wear armour, or fight; they stay quietly at home doing what they are told. Men see you, behaving quite differently from every female they have ever known; behaving, in fact, just like a man, and they do not think twice. I, however, am a dragon, and not so easily deceived,’ Xantilor finished proudly, ‘and I would hazard a guess that your real name is Torbraya.’

He was right, but Tor had never liked the name, and was not going to admit to it; she thought anyway they were straying off the point.

‘I didn’t come here to talk about the perceptive qualities of dragons. I’ve come to rescue the Princess.’

‘Why? She’s really rather a dull girl. Limited conversation. And she’ll no doubt want to marry you if you rescue her, it’s usually done I believe, but not advisable in this case. No, if I were you I wouldn’t bother. Not worth risking your life for. None of the others have succeeded, after all.’

‘What did you do to them, talk them to death?’ said Tor rashly.

The dragon bridled, then subsided. ‘I’ll ignore that. I would like you to tell me the story of your life.’

‘Why?’

‘Let us just say there is something about you. And don’t rush it. We have plenty of time…’

Xantilor settled himself, his chin resting on his crossed front feet, and looked at her expectantly. Tor had encountered sheep fiercer than this dragon appeared to be. She hesitated.

‘So you’re definitely not going to breathe fire at me?’

The dragon closed his eyes briefly. ‘There is a lot more to dragons than fire. Forget about it for the moment. Why don’t you sit down?’

Tor accepted that he would not take advantage of her being off guard. Not quite believing this was happening, she tethered her horse, got out her bread and cheese and sat on the rough grass in front of him. It was very pleasant in the warm spring sunshine, with the buzz of bees and birdsong in the background. There was a small silence.

‘Begin at the beginning,’ Xantilor suggested.

‘Right,’ said Tor. Maybe duels with dragons always started this way, with an exchange of the combatants’ personal histories, but this information had been lost in the mists of time. Perhaps it was part of the usual rules of engagement he had referred to. Still, there was no reason not to tell him her story…

‘I never knew my parents. My father was killed in battle before I was born.’

‘Was your father a soldier?’

‘No, he was a troubadour – by chance he got caught up in a skirmish against King Skardroft’s men. Then my mother died having me, so my grandfather came to get me. He’d fallen out with my father when he married – my mother was from the wrong family or something.’ Tor had asked him for details, of course, more than once; he would look at her under his bushy eyebrows and then get on with whatever he was doing. He had never spoken much about his past.

‘Was this your grandfather on your father’s side?’

‘Yes. He arrived when I was a few weeks old and being cared for by a neighbour.’ Tor knew he must have been bitterly disappointed when he discovered the last of his line was a girl. ‘He brought me up as though I was a boy – taught me to ride, hunt, even to read and write. But the main thing he taught me was to fight; he started training me as soon as I could hold a sword. I loved it. He said when he was dying, that he’d taught me all he knew and I wouldn’t meet many people who could fight better than me. He was proud of me.’ Tor turned away and ran a hand across her eyes; it was only half a year since his death.

‘What was your grandfather’s name?’

‘Attalor.’

‘Was it indeed? And where did he come from originally?’ Xantilor’s interest had sharpened.

‘From the North. Atherly Berrow.’ She looked enquiringly at the dragon, but when he said nothing, Tor continued with her story. ‘When I came of age on my eighteenth birthday, I went to Yarrow – that’s the nearest town to my village – to see a lawyer about my inheritance. My grandfather told me to just before he died; it was a surprise to me, because we never had any money. I dressed as a man for the journey, it seemed safer. I chopped a bit off my hair.’ She ran her hand through her shaggy mane like a heraldic lion’s, that the summer sun would burnish with gold. ‘It was nearly a day’s journey on foot.’

‘Did you not have a horse?’

‘We used to have one, grandfather scraped together enough to buy a good cavalry horse for me to learn to ride. But it was old when we got it; it died soon after my grandfather. I couldn’t afford another one.’

‘What did your inheritance turn out to be?’

‘Not a great deal of use. There’s a large house and estate, but it’s outside Tarragon and has been taken over by Skardroft for one of his cronies. No point at all trying to claim it as things stand. But there was this dagger. I’ve never seen one like it.’

Tor drew the dagger from her belt and held it out for the dragon to examine. The black handle was set with sombre jewels in black and purple, with entwined snakes and a miniature skull on the end of the pommel. An engraved inscription read, “Truth unto Death”, and the number eighty-eight. The narrow blade was black.

‘I don’t know what the metal is. It stays black even when you sharpen it.’

The dragon seemed about to say something, then changed his mind, and waited for her to continue. Tor took a deep breath. The next bit of her story was awful, and she didn’t want to think about it, let alone describe it. She was not going to cry any more. Get it over with. She spoke in a rush, her voice unsteady.

‘When I got back to the outskirts of Cramble – that’s my village – it was being sacked and burned by Skardroft’s soldiers. I don’t know why.’

Pictures ran through Tor’s mind; the astonishing, horrifying beauty of whole buildings billowing in flames…and the terror of the villagers with nowhere to run except on to the weapons of the soldiers, who surrounded the village in ranks three deep. There was a silence while Tor won her battle not to burst into tears. She cut to a more bearable part of the story.

‘I found one of the soldiers’ horses on its own in a barn and stole it to get away.’ Tor looked at the dragon, feeling this needed explaining. ‘I’d never stolen anything before, I’m not a thief, but with what was going on in the village the normal rules didn’t seem to apply.’ Xantilor nodded, and she went on, ‘I’d just untied it when its owner turned up. He’d been doing some looting away from the troop; he was carrying a sack full of stuff. He went for me and I killed him.’

Tor paused while she remembered staring at the dead soldier at her feet in the dim barn, and feeling only triumph. Any doubt, pity or remorse she might have felt had been wiped out by the numbing shock of seeing Cramble obliterated.

‘I found out afterwards that no one got away.’ Everyone, all the people she had known since she was a child, they were all dead. Her childhood had ended that night. ‘I’d heard in Yarrow that a counter-revolution was brewing against Skardroft, planning to put King Urquin back on the throne of Calambria, so I went to join them. Luckily I ran into a group of them not too far from Cramble. I’ve been with them for the past week or two, in the cavalry. Obviously I didn’t say I was a girl. I’ve still got the horse, as you can see. He’s called Carrots.’

Xantilor appeared to consider her story. Tor thought it was his turn.

‘What about you, how did you end up here working for Skardroft?’

There was disapproval in her tone, and the dragon sounded slightly defensive as he replied.

‘I may look in my prime, but I’m not as young as I was, so when I was offered this I took it. It’s a comfortable job, not much to do, pleasant surroundings; paid in gold, and three sheep provided to eat each week.’

‘Don’t you get bored?’ asked Tor.

She would have hated hanging around in a backwater with nothing happening and only a dull Princess to talk to. But it did account for his friendly behaviour. In his situation, she too would seize the opportunity to converse with the occasional stranger, even if the stranger had come with a view to a fight.

‘You have pinpointed the negative aspect of my situation, but we will leave that to one side for now. I have come to a decision.’

Xantilor started to get to his feet. Tor sprang up – were the preliminaries done with according to the dragon’s idea of a duel? Did the fighting start now? Standing, he loomed over her, blocking out a sizeable expanse of sky. But he said, more formally than he had spoken so far,

‘I have been indolent for too long, granddaughter of Attalor. You come as a portent to me. I have decided to join you and offer my services to King Urquin’s army, fighting as did the warrior dragons in the Dragon Battalions of old.’

Tor beamed with surprise and delight. What would her fellow soldiers in the troop say when she returned with a dragon in tow?

‘Good decision. You don’t want to work for a tyrant like Skardroft. But you won’t tell anyone I’m a girl, will you?’

‘Indeed no. Dragons are noted for their discretion. I suppose you will want to bring the Princess with us?’

‘She is what I came for, Xantilor.’

‘Then come with me and I will introduce you. Her name is Gwenderith.’

They walked side by side over the drawbridge and into the deserted Castle, Xantilor’s claws clicking and scratching on stone slabs, and then across a huge empty expanse of grass with groups of trees round the edges. There was a small tower set in the inner defensive wall, the only inhabited part of the whole place. Tor knocked on the door and asked if the Princess would come out. While she was waiting Tor looked around her and was struck by the haunting beauty of her surroundings. It was so peaceful; just the noise of leaves in the breeze, birds and the distant murmur of the river behind the Castle. If one was going to be a prisoner, or indeed the dragon guarding the prisoner, one could be in worse places. A minute later Gwenderith emerged, followed by her maid.

She was a little older than Tor and beautiful. Her face was a classic oval, her complexion creamy; she had big eyes with long lashes and a lot of black hair elaborately coiled about her head with jewels in it. The dress she wore was stiff with gold lace and embroidery. She had a small but ludicrously aggressive lap dog who yapped non-stop at Tor until the Princess picked him up (‘Really, Muffin, behave yourself; what will our visitor think?’) Her manner was serene and stately as she welcomed Tor and thanked her formally for negotiating her freedom from the Castle. She seemed to be on civil terms with Xantilor. It was difficult to know what she was thinking under her veneer of extreme politeness.

Tor could not resist asking her whether she had ever tried to escape, because in Tor’s view it would have been easy – presumably dragons had to sleep sometimes – but the Princess seemed mildly surprised as she said calmly,

‘Why, no; I knew someone would come for me in due course.’



2

THE HUNDRED KNIGHTS


Xantilor and Tor set off that same afternoon, the Princess in a carriage with her trunks and maids, her manservant driving, and her groom riding beside them. Rather than keeping with them, Tor chose to ride her horse next to Xantilor’s head so they could talk. She found it difficult to believe now that she had come meaning to kill him, when the outcome had been so very different. She already felt they were friends. There were a lot of things she wanted to ask him.

‘Tell me about the Dragon Battalions.’

‘Ah, the Dragon Battalions... I can just remember them from when I was a young dragon not long out of the shell, and very splendid they were, flying into battle, breathing flames over the enemy. A Dragon Battalion is a formidable force. It was my dream to join one of them when I was grown.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

Xantilor coughed. ‘You may find this difficult to believe, but I am an under-sized dragon, and was too small to be accepted into their ranks. I had to resign myself to the fact that I would never be a warrior dragon. It seems irrelevant now that there are so few of us left. I am sometimes afraid I may be the last dragon alive.’

‘What happened to them all?’

‘There were never huge numbers of dragons, and they have often been misunderstood and feared. When peace came, eighty years ago or so, their usefulness in battle was forgotten. Men have a short life span, and memories to match. Perhaps after Skardroft seized power, men thought of it again, but it was too late. They had forgotten the bond that could be forged between man and dragon, and preferred not to live too near them. The dragons had been driven away. And any egg-producing creature is vulnerable to egg theft and destruction.’

Tor thought this sad. She changed the subject. ‘Could you fly with me on your back?’

‘Certainly.’

Tor’s face lit up. She had always dreamed of flying.

‘Could we do it now?’

‘Yes,’ said Xantilor.

Tor got the groom to lead her horse, and scrambled up the dragon’s warm scaly sides. The scales did not afford much purchase, but Tor had strong arms and hands from years of climbing ropes and trees. She took off her jacket and folded it between two spines to make it more comfortable, and held onto the spine in front of her.

Xantilor’s wings spread and began to beat, he ran forwards a little and at once they were airborne, the ground receding below them. It was the most exciting moment of Tor’s life so far. They were faster than a galloping horse, the surge upwards with each wing beat was breathtaking and the view amazing. The wings made a rhythmic sound, low and musical. Tor could not stop smiling; she felt an overwhelming happiness she had not experienced since Attalor died. They reached a height from which she could see everything for miles, the little hamlets with their patchwork fields, the flat gleaming winding river, the forests hazy with new leaves varying from pinkish-brown to green, the Castle and its grounds spread out behind them.

Far too soon, Xantilor flew back to earth and landed, a little bumpily, some way ahead of the carriage. Tor slid off and ran round to his head and hugged him.

‘That was fantastic, Xantilor, the best thing ever!’

Xantilor looked gratified, but he was breathing too heavily to reply, and sat down to wait for the others to catch up with them.

‘Bit out of condition,’ he said after a minute. ‘Must get fit again.’

‘I’ll help you,’ said Tor, ‘any time.’

She thought how much she liked Xantilor, and it was nice that he seemed to like her too. By the time the others had joined them, he had got his breath back. When they were on their way once more, Tor said,

‘Did you know my grandfather? I thought his name meant something to you when I said it.’

‘Yes, I knew Attalor. It is a strange reflection that in some ways I may know more about you than you do yourself. I knew your grandfather when he was a young man in Atherly Berrow, more than fifty years ago.’

‘Did you really? What was he like back then?’

‘Handsome, a bit wild, and a superb fighter. You do not know, because no doubt he did not tell you for your own safety, that he was one of the Hundred Knights, and from your description it is clear he gave you the teaching that ensured you too, in your turn, would be such a Knight. Your dagger is one of only a hundred made for the Knights, passed from one initiate to another.’

Tor’s attention was riveted on Xantilor. This was the most thrilling thing she had ever been told. ‘Who are the Hundred Knights?’

‘They are, or perhaps I should say were, an elite fighting band that combined supreme martial skills with the highest principles of right. Established centuries ago in Atherly Berrow, there were always exactly a hundred Knights, plus of course their squires who were undergoing the long apprenticeship. The Knights were renowned for their knowledge of the arts of war; it is said that some Knights thought it beneath them to fight fewer than three opponents at a time, such was their prowess, but I think that is just part of the myths that surround them.’

‘What happened to the Knights?’

‘Most are dead, and nobody knows where the last few are. They were, of course, the natural enemy of every tyrant. King Skardroft has spent the past twenty years systematically tracking them down and destroying them, at first covertly, latterly quite openly. Those at Atherly Berrow left when Skardroft became their known enemy. They have not been seen for years, though I am sure that wherever they are, they will be working against Skardroft.’

‘So you really think I am one of the Hundred Knights?’

‘You have undergone the training, and you have the black dagger. Certainly you are a Knight.’

‘And my grandfather was a Knight before me…’ A thought struck Tor. ‘You don’t suppose they burnt Cramble because of my grandfather – maybe they didn’t know he was dead, maybe they were trying to kill him?’

Xantilor looked at her gravely. ‘Or you.’

*

King Skardroft stood, leaning on the low balcony wall, looking out with satisfaction over his kingdom. He had set his mark on Tarragon. It was a pleasing view, and all his doing; broad avenues stretched to the city gate, with parks dotted here and there among the houses. The trees he had had planted not long after seizing power were big now, their leaves green-gold in the dying light.

It had been worth clearing away the jumble of journeymen’s shacks and workshops that crowded round the foot of the citadel, their narrow alleyways crammed with scuffling children, chickens and pigs. On hot, still days their reek had risen to the Palace windows. The ramshackle hovels had been replaced by elegant houses with stables and spacious gardens, home to nobles whose support he could count on so long as he kept power.

The common people, forced out of their squalid quarters, had recreated the cramped conditions they seemed to favour out of his sight beyond the city walls. It was a matter of complete indifference to Skardroft that they hated him.

He turned into his room, crossed the carpeted oak floor and pulled a bell-rope. A serving-man entered, bowed, and got out a decanter and two jewelled goblets from a painted and gilded cabinet. He lit the candles in their golden sconces. As he left, a tall man walked softly past him and joined the King at the great polished table.

‘Corfe.’ Skardroft motioned him to sit. ‘Wine?’

Corfe was one of the few people that the King invariably invited to sit down and offered refreshment to. An inconspicuous man of indeterminate age, good at blending into the background in his habitual dark clothes, he was tall and lean, and a lot stronger than he appeared. He was an agent Skardroft valued; he got results.

Refusing the drink, Corfe sat, stroked his long chin and looked up at the wall behind Skardroft. Two tapestries, ten years’ work on the loom, showed a unicorn hunt; on the left the mythical beast stepped delicately on flowered turf towards a fair maid. The matching arras showed a king and his noblemen riding in pursuit.

Between was a decorative display of weapons. In that room where everything demonstrated the demanding taste of the King, and was as perfect as craftsman’s hand could make it, this alone was flawed. There were gaps like missing teeth in the three circles of jewelled black daggers.

‘The Hundred Knights, Sire…’ Corfe’s voice was quiet and unhurried, devoid of emphasis. ‘Attalor’s grandson, the Knight Torbrek; you remember we narrowly missed him when Cramble burned.’

Skardroft’s keen eyes turned his way and he frowned. ‘Cramble burned for nothing.’

‘Sire, the villagers lied. They denied all knowledge of a Knight in their midst. Had they chosen to answer my questions, they would have come to no harm. As it was, the damage was done; they knew we sought him. If we had not acted swiftly, they would have alerted him.’

‘It was unfortunate. If you’d discovered his existence sooner…not that I blame you. And I know you have the matter in hand.’

‘He’s with the rebels now, in the cavalry. I can make arrangements to take him. But first, there is something you should know.’

Before explaining, he leaned back and looked at Skardroft speculatively, wondering what his reaction would be. At present Corfe was sole possessor of the secret his research had revealed. Even Torbrek himself had no knowledge of it.

‘I’ve been looking into the records of the Hundred Knights, and I have come across some information about Torbrek that I think will interest you.’



3

HOW TO TRAIN A DRAGON


Tor made an entrance to the camp riding on Xantilor’s back. She was hoping to impress her recently-made friends in the cavalry, and she was not disappointed. Word spread like fire in a thatch and everyone dropped what he was doing and came to see.

To have brought back the Princess was impressive enough, particularly as she was so beautiful and regal just as a Princess should be; the soldiers showed their appreciation with cheers and whistles, but this was nothing compared to the reaction Xantilor got. He really drew the crowds. Few people had seen a dragon before, and no one had seen a dragon close to. Like Tor they were astonished by the sheer scale of him, and at first were inclined to be wary. Tor’s exhilaration changed to alarm as archers appeared, with arrows ready nocked to their bows. She shouted and waved from Xantilor’s back,

‘Don’t fire! He won’t hurt you; he’s come to join us. He’s on our side.’

She climbed off his back, and walked towards them by his side. She was relieved to see the bows lowered, and the archers come to have a closer look. Xantilor stood with quiet dignity while the soldiers crowded round him. One man tripped over the dragon’s foot in the throng, and automatically said sorry.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Xantilor politely, and caused a sensation.

‘It can talk!’

‘Go on, say something else!’

‘I hope you will not think me rude, but I am a little weary after the journey and would like a rest.’

The men cheered. Tor asked the quartermaster if he had somewhere the dragon could stay, and he found a barn big enough to accommodate him. Xantilor was worn out after the journey, but Tor was sure he only needed a night’s rest to be as good as new. She spread a thick layer of straw as a bed for him; he curled up, and soon his regular deep breathing rumbled round the barn.

Tor left him while she went to the barracks for supper. She had promised to stay in the barn herself that night to keep him company in his strange surroundings. He did not wake when she returned later. Too excited to sleep, she lay staring into the darkness, making plans for a training regime that would begin the next day, working out how she would dovetail it into her other commitments. One bright image after another passed through her mind.

The first thing was to get him fit. Tor smiled as she thought of all the flying this would necessitate. They could go back and see Cramble, and all the places around she used to go with her grandfather…she imagined how they would look from the air… Then fire breathing; she suspected it had been a long time since Xantilor had breathed fire. He was reticent on the subject. But surely it would come back to him…

Her own dragon; had it occurred to her that it was a possibility, she’d have wanted one all her life.

The following morning Tor sat on a stack of hay finishing her breakfast, in the golden light of the early sun that slanted through the doorway. Xantilor was still asleep, and she had not wanted to wake him. A ham Tor had begged from the kitchens was ready for him when he woke.

The light changed, and she looked up to see two men walking into the barn. Tor knew one of them by sight; he was a senior officer called Drewitt, and commanded Tor’s cavalry unit. Tor thought him unattractive, with his pale eyelashes, high forehead and humourless expression. He came up to Tor.

‘You can return to the cavalry now.’

‘What?’ As an afterthought, Tor scrambled up and saluted. ‘Sir.’

‘I said you can go.' He glanced at the man with him. 'We have found a Dragon Master’s son to take over the dragon. You won’t be needed here any more.'

‘I thought – I hoped…’

‘You thought what?’

‘That I could work with him. Sir.’

Drewitt gave a small smile. ‘How long have you been with us? One week, or is it two? I don’t think you’re quite ready for such a promotion yet. And I gather your experience with dragons is nil.’

‘I can learn. Has he got any experience with dragons?’ Tor indicated the other man with her chin.

‘Not directly, no, but – ’

‘Then I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

‘You are being insubordinate. Go back to the cavalry, now – that’s an order.’

Tor left, feeling mutinous. Drewitt was being completely unreasonable. It wasn’t fair. Who had brought the dragon there in the first place? And did this mean she would never again fly with him? That would be unbearable. She had not heard of the title Dragon Master before, but now she had, she wanted to be one, and envy gripped her soul. She had an overpowering feeling of wrongness that made Drewitt’s decision hard to accept; she should be with Xantilor now, helping him to get into condition, not some random Dragon Master’s son.

She hated Drewitt, and the man who had supplanted her. And she worried about poor Xantilor, waking up to find his future decided without reference to him.

Tor spent the next two days feeling as though she had a small black cloud over her head. She did not confide in her fellow soldiers in the cavalry; she feared she might burst into tears if they were sympathetic. They congratulated her on rescuing the Princess, but she did not care about that. She had no interest in the Princess. All she could think about was Xantilor.

Two or three times she went to the barn to see him, but there were guards at the entrance who turned her away. There were no windows to climb up to, and Tor could find no other way in. As far as she could tell Xantilor never left the barn, either, which seemed strange. She kept on the lookout for him, and after all, you could hardly miss a dragon because of its size.

On the third morning, she was taken out of the ranks of the cavalry drill by the sergeant, to the considerable interest of her fellow soldiers. A message had arrived; she was to report immediately to Barlanik, the leader of Urquin’s army, their Commander-in-chief.

Tor knew where Barlanik’s office was, though she had never been in there. An open door led to an anteroom, where a pretty, dark-haired young woman a few years older than Tor was sitting behind a desk, copying out a document. Tor remembered being told that she was Barlanik’s sister. She gave Tor a shy smile, and told her to go through. Barlanik’s office was not very large, but very orderly. Maps, lists and plans were pinned to the walls, and papers were neatly stacked on a large table. It was almost monastic in its absence of any personal possessions.

Barlanik stood looking out of the window at the cavalry drilling in the square. The muffled sound of hoof beats and shouted orders drifted in. He was tall, in his late twenties, with a soldier’s physique. He had dark eyes and curling hair like his sister’s.

Tor saluted. As Barlanik crossed the room his springy stride stirred some memory in her; she thought of her grandfather, and how much she missed him, how lonely she was without him.

‘Sit down,’ he said, taking a seat himself, and meeting her gaze. The Commander appeared preoccupied, serious, and not particularly friendly. His manner was business-like and decisive. Tor had been wrong about his eyes; where his sister’s were soft, his were cool and penetrating. He looked her over. She wished her clothes were less shabby, but at least her old boots, sword belt and buttons gleamed as much as polish could make them.

‘It seems we have no alternative but to make you Dragon Master, since the dragon will not co-operate with anyone else, and he could be very useful in action. I take it you are prepared to take this on?’

‘Yes, Commander,’ said Tor, incredulous and overjoyed, but trying not to show it.

‘We’ll be moving to Kallarven Castle in due course, and then you can relocate to the Dragon Tower, but for now there’ll be a room for you close to his quarters. You’ll be attached to the cavalry under Drewitt, but Dragon Battalions are traditionally independent units. I’d like you to report on his progress and potential regularly – you’d better attend strategy meetings until further notice. The next one is here tomorrow evening. Remember you’re an officer now, and as such a target for Skardroft’s spies. Avoid situations where you are vulnerable.'

'Yes, Commander!' Tor’s eyes shone. She was a Dragon Master…

'My sister has found a book which may be helpful. She’ll give it to you on the way out. Let her know if you need anything else. Do you have any questions?’

‘Well, a comment, Commander,’ said Tor, determined not to be intimidated by him. ‘Xantilor is middle aged for a dragon, and he’s set in his ways. I don’t think he’s breathed fire for years, or flown very far. It will take time to get him back into condition, and that’s only if he wants to. You can’t make dragons do things.’

‘Yes, we’ve learned that already,’ said Barlanik dryly. ‘See what you can do with him, and keep me informed.’ He stood. The interview was over.

Tor saluted with enthusiasm and made for the door. A thought that had been patiently waiting for her attention now seized its moment. He’s very good-looking…really attractive…quite old, of course, and a bit glacial (does he ever smile?) but still…not that I’d have a chance, he’s my commanding officer and thinks I’m a man, so forget it…

In the outer office a man in light armour was sitting on the edge of the girl’s desk eating an apple. His features were irregular, and not as good as Barlanik’s, but his amused and lively expression made his face agreeable. He got up and said,

‘You must be Torbrek. I’m Kerris, Barlanik’s second in command.’

‘Hi,’ said Tor, smiling at him and the girl, ‘everyone calls me Tor.’

‘Tor, have you been introduced to Linet? It’s short for Velindara, but you don’t need to know that. We couldn’t possibly manage without Linet, she knows everything.’

Linet gave a small smile and shook her head.

Kerris grinned. ‘Take no notice of her unassuming manner, she just puts that on to mislead. You’re the first Dragon Master I’ve met, owing to the current severe shortage of dragons. You must tell me what a Dragon Master does.’

‘I will when I find out. The Commander said we’re moving to Kallarven?’

‘Yes, we’re growing too many for this place. We’ll leave a garrison here and move most of the troops to the Castle. Strategically it’s much better, being nearer to Tarragon, and now we can get into it thanks to you.’

Tor turned to Linet. ‘Barlanik said you had a book for me?’

Linet produced a small shabby volume with metal hasps, slightly singed on one corner. It was entitled, in gold lettering on red leather, The Dragon Keeper’s Guide: A Manual of Dragon Lore.

‘It’s all I could find,’ she said. ‘Mostly they handed information straight from Master to apprentice – not much got written down.’

Tor opened it and flipped through the pages. The manuscript was decorated here and there with little pictures of gold dragons. It occurred to Tor that if that was how dragons were supposed to look, then Xantilor was definitely portly, and exercise must be high on her list. She turned to the title page.

“THE DRAGON KEEPER’S GUIDE: A MANUAL OF DRAGON LORE

by His Majestie’s Noted Dragon Master in Chief

Wherein he Treats of the Noble Dragon, (the Best of Creatures) its Management now made Easie; and all Its Occult-Lock’d-up Secrets Plainly laid Open, never before Discovered; whereby this Animal of Worth, may be render’d Tractable…”

Tor decided to get to grips with it later. She pocketed the book and went back to cavalry drill feeling elated. Kerris went in to Barlanik’s office and took a seat.

‘I’ve just been talking to the new Dragon Master.’

‘Yes, he’s younger than I expected but seems keen; looks more like an acrobat or a dancer than a soldier; we’ll have to see how he turns out. Kerris, I’ve been thinking we should have some sort of celebratory dinner for Gwenderith to mark the fact that she’s no longer Skardroft’s captive; can you set it up?’

‘Good idea. Who do you want to invite?’

‘Just the officers – usual sort of thing, but dress it up a bit, make her feel welcome. Wait till we get to the Castle, there’s bound to be a banqueting hall there. Get Raziella to put flowers on the tables. See if she can make the food better than last time.’

‘I’ll try to put it to her tactfully. Will you ask Tor?’

‘Yes, he’s an officer now; I’m going to put him on her other side. He rescued Gwenderith, that should give them something to talk about.’

Kerris was amused. ‘What are you going to talk to Gwenderith about?’

Barlanik’s brow furrowed. ‘God knows. Last time she told me about her dog. Any suggestions?’

‘You could tell her about your horse.’

Barlanik looked at Kerris. ‘That’s not helpful.’

‘You worry too much about it, just say anything, it doesn’t matter. You’re both trying too hard.’

‘I think she probably did conversation classes with her governess as part of learning to be a princess. She’s so correct, it makes her almost impossible to talk to – that, and the fact she’s never been anywhere or done anything.’

‘The penalty of being a princess. You must admit though, she’s easy on the eye.’

‘Oh yes. A nice girl, too,’ said Barlanik.

*

‘I’m afraid I made the Dragon Master's son's life rather unpleasant,’ said Xantilor complacently. ‘He’d lost his nerve by the end of the first day. Yesterday he got some other people in to help him, but I made it clear to them, in my own way, that they were wasting their time. Then this morning Barlanik himself came to see me, and I knew I was getting somewhere. He’s got a bit more sense. He listened to me.’

‘I should have known I didn’t have to worry about you,’ said Tor, ‘but I did.’

They were in a field within easy flying distance of the camp. Tor had brought the dragon book and was reading interesting bits out loud to Xantilor. It had turned out to be more useful than she’d expected.

‘It says here, “Let thy Dragon not Eate but what he hath Procured for Himselfe; for it is a Curious Observation, that the Dragon that feedeth Grosslie, and is too Amplie Provided for by his Keeper, (for reasons of Mistaken Kindenesse), will not Thrive, but grow Fat, Browne, and a Sluggard. Therefore, see ye give him naught but a Small Token for to acknowledge his Compliance; a roast Quail proveth a suitable Gifte and spoileth not his Appetite.” No more sheep for you, then. You don’t want to be a Sluggard. And what does it mean, grow brown?’

‘Most dragons go a bit brown as they get older,’ said Xantilor stiffly.

‘Hmm. This next bit says a dragon shows his feelings by the colour of his scales; “his Natural Golde giveth waye to his passions, and he turneth Purple when Cholericke.” Maybe that’ll come when you’re fitter.’

Tor jumped up and collected some twigs from the ground, propping them against each other on end in front of the dragon. Xantilor’s head followed her movements. When she was satisfied, she stood back.

‘Okay, see if you can set fire to them.’

The dragon gave her a dubious look. ‘Not sure if I can,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s been a long time…’

‘Just have a go; it doesn’t matter if you can’t at first. I know you will after a bit of practice, it may take a few days, that’s all.’

Xantilor closed his eyes and concentrated. He took a deep breath, then blew.

The sticks fell over. A tiny wisp of smoke came out of his mouth.

‘Excellent! A good start – we’ll try again tomorrow,’ said Tor encouragingly. ‘And I’m going to see the saddler, there’s a really good drawing here of a dragon saddle with all sorts of hooks and rings – attachments for weapons and ropes and things.’

She jumped up to show Xantilor, and saw a man riding up the rough slope towards them. ‘Look, it’s Kerris. Hi.’

‘Hallo,’ said Kerris, dismounting, ‘I thought I’d come and find out what a Dragon Master does. And a dragon, for that matter.’ His horse began to crop the grass. ‘Go on, don’t mind me, pretend I’m not here.’

‘Actually, we’d about finished for today. I have to get back for sword drill.’

‘Rats. I’ve got the morning off, and I can’t find anyone to spend it with. Everyone’s rushing off somewhere. Can’t you miss sword drill for once? You’re the best in the troop.’

‘If I’m the best it’s because I practice every day. It’s a shame you’ve got your horse, you could’ve flown back with us. Flying’s amazing, you’d like it.’

Kerris shook his head. ‘Some other time.’

‘I know, I could take your horse, and you can ride Xantilor.’

‘Really kind offer, but I think I’ll pass.’

A suspicion Tor had entertained before about Kerris became stronger. ‘Hmm…you don’t much like heights, do you?’

Kerris looked shifty. ‘Me, afraid of heights? Nothing I’d like more than a panoramic view from a few hundred feet up in the sky, perched perilously on the spikes of a dragon’s back. With nothing to hang on to. But Outlaw’s not very good with strange riders. You might get thrown. I’d never forgive myself.’

Tor grinned at him. ‘I can manage the horse if you can cope with Xantilor. Ten ducats says you can’t.’

Kerris’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re on.’

He walked over to the dragon. ‘Nice and gently for a novice rider, there’s a good chap.’ He clambered up Xantilor’s side, gingerly settling himself between the wings.

‘These spines are a bit…spiny. Ah…and I’m quite high up already, I see, even with him sitting on the ground…oowaaah!’

Xantilor had got up with a rocking motion, first to his front feet, then to all four of them. He stretched his wings. Kerris’s face, noticeably paler, was such a mixture of unease and determination as he clung on, that Tor laughed heartlessly up at him.

‘Kerris, you look the part. Anyone seeing you would think you’d been a Dragon Master for, oh, all of five minutes.’

She went to Xantilor’s head and spoke softly to him. ‘Take him the scenic route home, over the forest. But don’t let him fall off, will you?’

The dragon lifted into the blue sky, away from the camp, flying low and not too fast. Tor watched till they disappeared, picked up the dragon book and went over to Outlaw.

*

In the outskirts of the forest, concealed against its dark depths, Corfe sat on his horse and watched Torbrek consideringly. The King had told him to leave off his other investigations, in order to concentrate on the capture of Torbrek, and today Corfe was deep in rebel-held territory, to spy out the land. A pity Skardroft’s commandos were not with him; now that the dragon had flown off with its Master, they could have snatched him easily. Now Torbrek was heading back to the camp. Best to wait until he went hunting alone. Just a matter of perseverance. Corfe had the ability to bide his time when other men would grow weary and give up; he found patience was a strategy that worked. He turned his horse and disappeared into the trees.

*

Tor went to find the saddler in her lunch break. The saddler’s shop was dark inside, with rolls of hides of varying thickness stacked against the wall, and boxes of interesting metal parts, buckles, nails, studs, and rings of various shapes. Stirrups and bits were arranged by size on shelves, while set up on a workbench under the window were saddles in different stages of construction. There was an agreeable smell of leather and wood. The saddler, a stout man in a leather apron, seemed dubious when Tor showed him the dragon saddle illustration; he sucked in air past his teeth and shook his head.

‘That’s a bit different from what I usually make,’ he said. ‘Course, in the old days, you had your dragon loriners would do all that sort of thing, but I don’t know where you’d find one nowadays. Come to think of it, I did hear there was one still at Atherly Berrow – mark you, you wouldn’t want to go there now, it’s overrun with Skardroft’s soldiers.’

‘But I’m sure you could do it; if you measured the dragon – I’d be there to help, of course,’ she added hastily, seeing his expression, ‘– and used this picture as a guide, with all your experience of saddling horses, you could do a first rate job.’

‘I don’t know…what’s these bits here?’ He pointed a stubby finger.

‘Those are straps you buckle round your legs for battle – if the dragon’s going to be doing rolls, to stop you falling off. I think these curved metal bars do the same thing, but the straps are for extra security. And these are the handles at the front, they’re made out of metal and wood, you hold on to those.’

‘And this here?’

‘That’s for a coil of rope, and these are to hold spears, I think.’

‘A job like this isn’t going to come cheap, you know.’

Tor did not care; she had already squared the expense with Linet. In the end, as though against his better judgment, the saddler agreed to come and measure Xantilor the following morning.

On her way out of the saddler’s, Tor noticed a pair of boots in the window of the outfitter’s next door. They were tall, made of brown leather with an expensive sheen to it, with more straps and buckles than were strictly necessary. Tor gazed, and then went into the shop. I need a few shirts, anyway, she thought, now I’ve earned some money; everything I’ve got is dreadfully worn and patched. I might as well try them on… Half an hour later she emerged with the shirts, the boots, trousers, and a leather jacket with a high collar and brass studs. She had never had as many new clothes before. She was pleased to have something respectable to wear to the dinner in Gwenderith’s honour later that week, as Kerris had told her she was to be near the top of the table.

Xantilor approved, when Tor rather shyly showed her new clothes to him.

‘I didn’t like to say anything, but it did cross my mind that perhaps you were a little unkempt for a Dragon Master. Now you look the part.’

The next morning the saddler came to measure Xantilor, who behaved impeccably, like the most docile dragon you could wish for. The saddler leaned a ladder against his side, and climbed stolidly to the top to take his careful measurements. He was now committed to the project, and made one or two suggestions for improvements to the design, which were useful, and Tor told him to incorporate them.

*

The whole army and its support network of armourers, smiths, and merchants moved to Kallarven Castle over the next couple of days. Tor and Xantilor flew there, stopping every now and then for the dragon to rest.

Tor liked the Dragon Tower; it was her domain where she was in charge, like having her own kingdom. The ground floor was enormous, with a lofty vaulted ceiling and small round windows high up. This was where Xantilor lived. There was space for four dragons, which they would have had in the old days of the Dragon Battalions. The walls were several feet thick, with a huge fireplace in the middle of each of the sides. Tor knew from the dragon book that this was to warm the dragons in winter before a battle. Dragons got a bit sluggish in the cold, and in a fight, the least chilled dragons had the advantage and this could be decisive. The walls had once been whitewashed, but were now scabby and peeling.

Above, and leading from the ground floor by four spiral staircases, were four not very large circular turrets, two of which were ruined and occupied by pigeons. Tor chose the best one of the others for her living quarters, and swept and scrubbed the grime of years from it. There was a small fireplace, which would come in handy when it grew cold. She brought her camp bed from the barracks, and banged in a row of nails on the wall to hang her clothes, armour and weapons on. The turret windows were narrow, and pointed at the top, placed at intervals all the way round the walls so you could see the countryside in all directions. Their glass was old and wavery, which made the view look as if it had run slightly in the rain. Tor loved the spiral staircase up to it, the panelled door made to the same shape as the windows, and the fact that it was her very own. She did not mind its bareness, or the leaking roof, or the way it was like an oven on a hot day and was certain to be freezing in winter.

Tor drew up a plan for Xantilor’s exercise and training. They started each morning with flying, concentrating on building up the dragon’s stamina and manoeuvrability in the air; Tor wanted him to be able to soar, dive and generally whiz about the sky like a swift. Xantilor pointed out that he was, in fact, rather larger than a swift, with a less advantageous wing to body-weight ratio.

‘Ah, but you’ll be losing a bit of weight, foraging for yourself,’ said Tor, ‘plus the book says in battle a dragon is vulnerable to arrows through its wings, and you need to be able to avoid them.’

After the flying, Xantilor practiced breathing fire. This was coming on more slowly than Tor had hoped. So far the dragon had only managed smoke, but the quantity of smoke he produced was increasing, and Tor was often coughing as she assured Xantilor that they were nearly there now.

After this, Tor went off to weapons drill, while Xantilor hunted his breakfast in the forest. He was not yet very good at this, and sometimes, if he failed to catch anything, Tor would relent when she came back and shoot him a rabbit. This did not altogether meet with Xantilor’s approval. The first time she gave him a rabbit, he peered at the small furry body, then turned his head to stare at Tor.

‘What’s this?’

‘I thought you might be hungry.’

‘I am, very, but I don’t know that this will help. Even for a rabbit (and rabbits are small creatures when considered as a meal for a dragon) it’s diminutive. It must have been the runt of the litter. I expect its parents couldn’t get it to eat its greens. It was most likely a worry to them, it being so undersized and failing to thrive. Probably a good thing you put the wretched animal out of its misery. But I have to say, I’m not sure it’s worth my using up energy chewing it.’

Tor was taken aback by so much sarcasm. ‘Oh all right then, if that’s how you feel, I’ll give it to the kitchens. They’ll take anything they can get.’

‘On the other hand, I don’t wish to appear ungrateful,’ said Xantilor, eating the rabbit in one gulp before Tor could take it away, and looking reproachfully at her.

But overall she was proud of his progress, and his willingness to work with her. She was confident that it was just a matter of time before he was as good as any dragon in the Dragon Battalions had ever been. She liked being a Dragon Master. There was a bit in the dragon book which made her realize that she was in fact extremely lucky to be one. It was right at the start, and said,

‘The Dragon chooseth the Master, not the Master the Dragon, and None shall have sway over the Dragon but He whom the Dragon hath chosen. Commend thyself unto the Dragon howsoe’er thou may, thou canst not usurp the place for which thou wast not chosen, nor, having been chosen, canst thou be Remov’d by any man. For it is manifest, the Dragon obeyeth his Imperious Heart, and chooseth his Master, whatever be his profession and degree, according to its Dictates.’

There was a lot more about the eccentric whims of dragons in choosing unsuitable Masters, which made Tor suspect that the author had at some time been rejected by a dragon in favour of someone else, and was still smarting from it. He went on to say that you could increase your chances of bonding by hatching a dragon from the egg, but even this did not always work, and could (reading between the lines) be heart breaking. Imagine hand-rearing a dragon from the moment it hatched till it was full grown, then have it choose your enemy instead of you – or even worse, your best friend. Apparently, you could work with dragons who had not found their Dragon Masters, but you had to persuade them and negotiate at every turn, which was described as ‘a toilsome, weary enterprise’.

Tor had not realized that when she met Xantilor, he had instantly chosen her to be his Dragon Master. He had not said it in so many words. She felt touched, and grateful, and very, very lucky.

*
As he did on the last day of every month, Corfe went to the goldsmith’s opposite the Palace in Tarragon to deposit his wages. He had his own safe there, with nothing inside but neatly stacked gold coins. Corfe opened it with his own key, and added more ducats to his hoard. The hovering goldsmith said what he usually said in one way or another.

‘If you’d let me invest that for you, you’d make quite a nice lot of interest on it.’ His expression was pained. ‘The money you could have made in the twelve, thirteen years you’ve been coming here…’

It was a waste, in his opinion; and Corfe never spent any of it, either – look at his clothes! Not a man who got much joy out of life, though he seemed to derive some cheerless satisfaction from watching his gold accrue. Corfe gave a slight shake of his head.

‘Well, it’s your money,’ the goldsmith said, pocketing the two crowns he charged Corfe for safeguarding his funds.

Walking away, Corfe’s mind went back thirteen years. He had been employed as a copy clerk in the Palace, working in a room with two dozen other clerks. Tedious, repetitive work, that his fellow clerks enlivened by backchat and banter that did not include Corfe. Then one day, eating his solitary lunch in a niche behind a statue in the hallway, he overheard a conversation that would change his life; give him power, make people regard him with fear instead of contempt.

Two envoys had just left the King’s presence, having reached agreement about a non-interventionist treaty between Calambria and neighbouring Kimber. In exultant but hushed tones they were discussing a loophole that Skardroft had missed, and the importance of getting the document signed with all speed. Corfe trailed them to their offices, and waited until a messenger left ten minutes later, then followed him. His instincts told him this was an opportunity not to be missed.

The stables were the first place without onlookers. Corfe picked up a doorstop and felled the messenger. Back then, he reflected, his methods were crude. He took the letter from the man’s bag, and went to see the King. Getting access to him took some persistence, but he could still recall Skardroft’s deepening interest as he read the letter, which had been frank, and his expression as he looked up.

‘You seem to be wasting your talents working as a clerk. Anything else like this, bring it to me. They’ll let you straight in next time. You will find me grateful.’ The King opened a drawer, got out a small bag, and handed it to Corfe.

Outside, Corfe counted the coins. More than he earned in half a year as a clerk. More, he knew, than he would spend.

In those days, Corfe had felt the need for women. It was one of the few things he spent his meagre wages on. Over the years he had grown out of this; their idle curiosity about him was tiresome, and he found he could manage without them. He did not seek or welcome intimacy. But that night, with new possibilities opening before him, and gold in his pocket, Corfe visited a better class of establishment than the one he regularly frequented. The whore he chose was pretty and young; too young to conceal her repugnance for him. This did not spoil his pleasure.

The next day, he’d consciously started to watch anyone who seemed a profitable subject, and later the King had given him one or two things to investigate. Gradually his work for Skardroft had become regular and salaried. He had discovered in himself a skill for interrogation, an instinctive knack for applying pressure to the right places. Thorough knowledge of his victims, a correct assessment and ruthless exploitation of their vulnerability, made him formidable.

Corfe had found his metier, the one thing he enjoyed: bending others’ wills to his. The piles of gold were the measure of his success.