Happy birthday, Marabeast!
I totally had this ready yesterday, and all lined up to post first thing this morning. Then we had the mother of all powercuts and I'm only getting round to it now, so...
And as a "birthday present", have the next chapter of Dragon Control. So that maybe I can avoid the wrath of the Marabeast this time. :D
Chapter 10
“Bryn! You made it!”
“I did,” said Bryn, with a lop-sided smile. “I just figured I may as well check it out; it sounded kind of fun.”
“I hoped you would! Right then, come this way! I have a spare sword for you in the house.” Tobias Keats waved a hand, motioning that Bryn should follow him.
Keats was wearing a loose-weave cream-coloured shirt with gold stitching around the collar, sleeves and waist, and a pair of baggy wine-red trousers stuffed into some impressive high-top boots. Over this ensemble he wore a small red cape which reached his elbows, and an empty sword belt hung at his waist.
Bryn looked around, and had the strangest feeling of being out of place and dressed in funny clothes. He was surrounded by between ten and twenty people wearing outfits inspired by Medieval times, and there was Bryn in the middle, dressed for a day cruising downtown Hamilton. Even though he was the one wearing everyday gear, he was the one wearing the abnormal clothes.
It had taken Bryn a little while to figure out if he wanted to come along to the Society for Creative Anachronisms gathering. In the end, he decided that an excuse to attack something in a socially-acceptable manner would be good for his temper. He had a resoundingly bad feeling about the cretinous man who had foisted his company upon them that morning. Somehow, he doubted that it would be the last time they heard from Dr Ebenezer Crane.
A man wearing a green tunic with a hood emerged from the house when Bryn and Keats had almost reached the door. He saw Keats and inclined his head deeply and respectfully. “M’lord!” he cried cheerfully.
“Will Fletcher! I did not realise you were here. How goes things in the fair land of Dawnley?” Keats replied in a booming voice.
“Not bad, m’lord, not bad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Sir Cheney requires my help in setting up the sparring ring,” the man said, bobbing into another bow.
“Dawnley?” Bryn asked as the apparently-named Will scuttled off across the lawn.
“Ngaruawahia to you,” Keats clarified. “Most places in New Zealand have been renamed to be more...era-appropriate.”
“I see,” said Bryn.
It hadn’t been as difficult to find the house as Bryn had been expecting. As it happened, there had been a bus to drop him off at the end of Carwardine Road and he was able to walk the remaining kilometre or so to reach the house. It was a large property, surrounded by an expansive lawn that was in turn surrounded by paddocks and a few peacefully munching cows. The house itself was a jaunty two-storey number in dark wood. It had a touch of rustic about it; Bryn spotted several old pieces of farm equipment hulking in the woolly gardens, arranged artistically to add to the feel of the place. The interior was close and dimly-lit with ceiling lights which splashed shadows across the walls. The air smelled spicy, and ever so faintly of sawdust, honey, leather polish and varnish. Looking around in the hallway, Bryn couldn’t see a single ornament or item of furniture under fifty years old; everything was an antique.
Keats led him through into the lounge, which looked as though it came straight out of an Oscar Wilde book: it was every bit the traditional Victorian living room, plush and warm.
“Over here,” said Keats, heading for a bundle wrapped in dark blue cloth in one corner. From it, he withdrew a rather magnificent sword. “It’s not sharp, of course. We don’t actually want to hurt anyone. That’s not to say bruises and scrapes don’t happen, but it’s all part of the fun, really.” He slapped Bryn jovially on the shoulder and handed him the sword. Bryn smiled weakly, too overwhelmed to say anything else.
“This, on the other hand...” Keats bent over again and uncovered a splendid blade. It wasn’t overly fussy; there were no semi-precious stones set into the hilt or anything silly like that, it was simply a length of good strong steel. “This is my pride and joy. I had it presented to me when I was named Duke of Bramshire, just as I will pass it on to the next duke when I tire of the role.” He picked up the sword and gazed adoringly down its glistening length.
“Of course, it doesn’t see a whole lot of action. It’s more symbolic than anything else, but it’s still nice to own a real sword instead of these watered down models here.” He indicated the one now resting in Bryn’s awkward grasp.
“Do- do the other members have real swords, too?” Bryn asked, finding his voice at last.
Keats nodded. “Some of ‘em do, mostly the dignitaries like myself. The Lord of Axelham has the most beautiful longsword I’ve ever clapped eyes on. A few of the regular members have them as well; the really keen ones, you understand. They’re not cheap.”
“I can imagine. Well, thank you for letting me borrow this one for the time being,” said Bryn, starting to doubt the wisdom of coming along and feeling as though he was floundering horribly out of his depth.
“No worries! No worries at all! But we’re not done yet, my lad. Let’s have a look at you.” He stepped back and appraised Bryn, making him feel quite uncomfortable. “Hmm...I’d say you’re about the size of young Geoff, I’ll see if he’s got some garb going spare for you. I’m pretty sure I saw him out the front sorting out the feast situation. Wait here!” With that, Keats hurried out of the lounge, his empty sword belt rattling slightly as he went.
Feeling unsure of himself, Bryn set the sword down on the coffee table and perched on the edge of one of the plump sofas. His thoughts turned to how the populace was faring in the dragon emergency. He’d been keeping half an eye on the news and the ‘Sphere to make sure things were staying in check. Apart from the odd scorched barn in rural areas and occasional alarmed picnickers in bush reserves scattered around the country, everything was alright. He was pleased the release they’d sent to the ‘Sphere had received the response they had hoped for; practically every single report he’d read, heard or watched since had the same message added on to the end like a tagline: ‘if you find yourself in close contact with a dragon, keep calm and back away slowly. It will not attack if you give it no reason to. Under no circumstances should you attempt to physically engage the dragon.’
He wondered, with a small amount of relish, what Crane thought of their actions in crowd calming and the vindictive part of him hoped Crane was really, really pissed off by it. He was ninety-five per cent sure that the disgraced scientist would try to stir up trouble, but as long as the general public was smart enough to know a madman and a rabble-rouser when they saw one...
Keats reappeared with a young man about Bryn’s age hovering by his shoulder carrying a duffel bag.
“Here we are! Bryn, I’d like you to meet Simon, or Geoff Lachlan as he’s known around here,” Keats said, indicating the nervous man behind him. Simon aka Geoff Lachlan gave him a friendly nod and a smile.
“Let’s see what you’ve got in your bag of tricks then, Geoff,” said Keats, waving him over to a handy lace-draped table.
Geoff dumped the bag on the table and unzipped it quickly, then started rooting through its contents. “Right, what have we got here...” he muttered, apparently to himself. He pulled several odds and ends out of the bag, including two wooden goblets, a candle holder, a complete era-inappropriate drink bottle, a medium-sized piece of fabric and a dagger with a blunted blade in a scabbard.
“Here, try that,” he said finally, tossing a shirt at Bryn, who caught it clumsily. “And these should fit you, too.” The shirt was joined by a pair of trousers.
“I don’t have any shoes going spare I’m afraid, I only got the ones I’m wearing now,” Geoff said reproachfully.
“No, no, that’s fine. As long as you don’t mind me wearing my scungy old sneakers,” said Bryn, looking at the offending articles in question.
“We’ll let you get away with it just this once,” said Keats, flicking an admonishing finger. “Now, you get changed and then get yourself outside! I’d say we’re about ready to go with the sparring ring by now. Oh, if you want to have a try with the archery, you might have to smile nicely at Genevieve: she’s the one who oversees all the stuff to do with bows and arrows, and I’m afraid I didn’t bring a spare set with me today. I only got my bow and I hope you appreciate that it’s not something I let just anyone mess about with.”
“Understood. I get that these things mean a lot to you,” said Bryn.
“Quite right. If you end up joining and buying your own gear and garb, you’ll know exactly where I’m coming from.” Keats clapped his hands suddenly, making Bryn jump. “Well! I’ll stop distracting you now with idle banter and let you go get changed this time. If you just pop into the bathroom, down the hallway and third on the left. You’ll see it. Okay, meet you outside! Come on, Geoff, we’d better get you back to what you were doing.”
Bryn found the bathroom no problem and changed quickly into the unfamiliar clothes. They hung loosely on his lanky frame, but in a way that suggested they were meant to be like that. The shirt was pale brown and descended to his knees. He gathered it around his waist with a belt Geoff had also provided him with, which made it look a bit less like he’d cut a hole out of a sack and thrown it over his head. The pants were simple, black and baggy, tightened with a drawstring.
Bryn deposited his everyday wear in the living room by Keats’ bundle, for want of a better place to put it, grabbed the practice sword off the coffee table and then wandered down the hall and back into the warm evening sun. Already, walking around in the unusual garb, he felt a lot more a part of the gathering; he no longer stuck out like a crow among the budgerigars.
He halted at the door, taken by the sight: it looked straight out of a fairytale book. Women milled about in dresses of homespun cloth, carrying bowls of fruit and cooked meat. Men swaggered here and there, toying with bowstrings and testing blade edges. That’s not to say there weren’t men carrying food and women discussing the finer points of swordplay, and in that way the scene deviated from one of strict Medieval-ness, but the basic idea was there. Two large banquet tables had been draped with white cloths and piled with a potluck feast of roasted meats and vegetables, fruit and pitchers of juice and wine. People hummed around these two tables like wasps, checking places and chatting noisily all the while. A large, pale-coloured canvas tent had been pitched a little way away, in which people were storing some of the gear and treating as a place to sit, relax and avoid helping set up. Further down the lawn still was what appeared to be a purpose built sparring ring, where Bryn could see Will and a number of others shuffling about preparing swords and such. In the paddock over a small stile, the archery range was already prepped and there was a spot of shooting taking place.
All this was set under the brilliance of the almost-setting sun and the whole scene was washed with glorious golden-orange light. It was nothing short of idyllic.
Keats spotted Bryn almost immediately and called out to him, walking towards him up the hill. “Ah, now you look the part! Shame about the shoes, but we won’t bother with that too much, eh?” He flagged down a woman wearing a fine, royal blue gown who was walking past and introduced her with a grin. “This here is Lady Ramleigh, and this is her house. She’s kind enough to let this rowdy lot invade her property once a month! M’lady, I’d like you to meet Bryn, a new friend of mine.”
She smiled in an open, friendly way. “Nice to meet you! It’s always great seeing new faces at these gatherings. I know how overwhelming it can all be at first, so if you feel uncomfortable calling me Lady Ramleigh, I don’t mind if you call me Gail, at least until you get used to it. I- Terry, get out of it you dirty sod!” Bryn jumped back, alarmed by the sudden outburst.
“Excuse me a moment,” Lady Ramleigh sighed, then marched purposefully past Bryn in the direction of the nearby bushes. “Terry! Out!”
She reached into the bushes and hauled out a shamefaced black and white border collie who was licking his lips guiltily.
“Filthy dog,” Lady Ramleigh snarled, dragging the dog over by the collar. “I found a dead rat earlier and threw it into those bushes. Evidently, this one just found it.” She gently shook the border collie, who stared at her with a soulful expression that reminded Bryn of Chalk so much he had to close his eyes for a second to force the thoughts back down.
“He’s such a rascal, gets into anything and everything. But we need to keep him around because we use him for shifting the stock; you probably noticed.” She pointed vaguely at the surrounding paddocks where the cows continued to completely ignore the activity around them. “He ignores just about everything we say to him, unless we use the whistle. That’s about the only way to reach him when he’s in one of his strange moods.”
Bryn looked down at the dog, who looked back at him with the unmistakable expression of an animal caught in the act of doing something it knew was frowned upon by the Master and the Mistress.
Lady Ramleigh crouched beside him and crinkled his ears affectionately. “For all that, he’s our baby. Aren’t you, Terry? Yes.” She pressed her forehead against the dog’s and with that gesture he knew he was forgiven. Terry jumped up, tail a-wag, and bounded off across the lawn in search of a nice human to give him a morsel of food or two or three. Another lovely dead rat would do nicely.
Lady Ramleigh turned back to the two of them, smiling winningly. “So sorry about that. Anyway, Bryn, I do hope you enjoy yourself and maybe we’ll get to see you back sometime?”
“Er, we’ll see-“
“-I’m afraid I have to dash for now - there’s still a bit to do around the place before we properly get started! - but I’m sure you’re in safe hands with Duke Fallworth here. Farewell!” She bowed - a gesture which Keats returned - then flitted off in the direction of the banquet tables.
“Great piece of work that,” said Keats, nodding in Lady Ramleigh’s direction. “She’s been an SCA member far longer than I have, and she’s totally dedicated to it. She put the sparring ring in a couple of months ago, and it’s utterly brilliant. Speaking of...shall we have a quick go now, before they get done with the food?”
Bryn blanched. He was starting to get second thoughts about this whole deal. “Oh, I don’t...maybe another time. I’ve never used a sword before; I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
The cheeky glint in Keats’ eye told him he wasn’t getting out that easy. “Oh, no you don’t, my friend. You’re in the deep end now, and what better time to start learning? Come on, I’ll lead you through it.”
“Well...” Bryn hesitated. “Alright. But please, be kind to me and don’t laugh.”
“I promise nothing!” Keats said, already chuckling at the mere thought and leading Bryn down the slope.
There were a couple of people already practising in the ring, a young man and woman.
“-Thomas, attack is the best defence, remember!” the woman snapped as they came within hearing range. “One of these days, you’re going to have to land a hit on me; this year, preferably!”
“S-sorry, Janice...” the man stammered, his shoulders slumping. Janice turned as Keats approached and gave a friendly wave.
“Good evening, m’lord! Just putting Tom here through his paces. He’s getting better slowly, but he’s still rubbish.”
“Hey!” said Tom indignantly.
“You know I’m joshing,” Janice said, grinning. “You want the ring, m’lord? I think we’re about done here for now. Thomas needs to go nurse his crushed ego for a while, having just lost to his girlfriend again. Some knight in shining armour.”
Tom shuffled his feet. “Jan, you’ve been doing this longer than me...”
“You’ll get her back some day, Tom. Keep at it,” said Keats, clapping him on the shoulder. The young man buckled under the force of the blow and stumbled to stay upright. Bryn sympathised; he, too, had been on the receiving end of one of Keats’ hearty encouraging shoulder-claps.
The couple jumped over the low wooden fence surrounding the ring and made their way back up towards the house in the fading light, bickering the whole way.
“Come on then, after you,” said Keats graciously, flourishing a hand at the fence.
Reluctantly, Bryn hoisted one leg then the other over the wooden posts, hopping into the ring. He was followed closely by Keats, who immediately drew his sword from the sheath on his belt. Bryn did the same.
“Okay, I’ll just take you through the basics, because I don’t imagine we’ll have time for any more than that.”
Bryn nodded nervously, aware that people were materialising around the perimeter of the circle to watch; they always enjoyed seeing fresh meat getting flung around in the swordplay ring. There was no malice in this voyeurism, however, it was simply that they liked seeing how new people handled themselves and being reminded of how discombobulated they were when they first started themselves.
Keats was true to his word and didn’t treat Bryn too harshly, although he did laugh uproariously once or twice at some of Bryn’s more ungainly and awkward dodges which had him pirouetting like an amateur ballerina.
Despite the embarrassment that crawled throughout him, making it feel as though he was glowing red and burning in his skin, Bryn was surprised by how much he enjoyed the new experience of wielding the sword - blunt as it was - and feeling the hot strain of it surging through his muscles like quicksilver. By the end, he was bruised and battered as an old tin can used for target practice, but with the pain came a warming glow that illuminated him from the inside out.
“I think that’s enough for now,” said Keats finally, easily deflecting Bryn’s latest enthusiastic but inarticulate attempt. It took a moment for the cogs in Bryn’s head to stop whirring with adrenaline, but he nodded, panting gently.
Keats, also breathing heavily, reached out and grabbed Bryn’s empty hand, raising it in triumph as a referee does to a victorious boxer.
“Three cheers for Bryn! There’s potential in the boy yet! Hip, hip!”
“Huzzah!”
“Hip, hip!”
“Huzzah!”
“Hip hip!”
“Huzzah!”
The small crowd burst into rapturous, appreciative applause. Bryn’s cheeks were flushed with a strange cocktail of deep embarrassment at what he was doing, excitement, and a splash of pride at the fact that he hadn’t totally failed in his first attempt at swordplay. Normally, as a young man of twenty-five, he would heavily object to being called ‘boy’, but it didn’t bother him so much in this case because...he didn’t really know why. It was impossible not to like this group of people; they were wonderfully passionate about what they did, and a tiny bit mad with it. Maybe this was his unfound hobby, the thing that would make him an interesting person. Maybe this would be the turning point in his life. Looking around at the cheerful faces peering back at him smilingly, he felt his self-consciousness and embarrassment begin to wash away like the petering rays of the sun. For what was quite literally the first time in his life, he came completely out of his shell and did something he’d never done before: he bowed flamboyantly to the assembled crowd, one foot placed daintily before the other and hands a-twirl. It was far showier than anything he’d done in front of a group of more than three or so people, because of his constant fear of making a fool of himself in public; the fear that coiled around his stomach like a boa constrictor, squeezing out every ounce of his self-confidence. The little cheer he got from this small display set afire the flame in his heart once more and he couldn’t help but grin wildly. Perhaps he looked like a lunatic; right now, he couldn’t care less.
***
As the last crimson rays of sunset disappeared behind the crags of the distant low-lying hills, a number of torches, braziers and lanterns were lit to allow the feasters enough light to see their dinner by.
“...And then I had to help the poor old girl out of the bloody pohutukawa tree of course,” said Bryn, pausing to let the laughter subside. “She wasn’t hurt - at least, if you don’t include her pride in that - but I don’t imagine she ever set finger on a sleeping leatherback again.”
Keats - or Fallworth as he was starting to come to grips with calling him - roared with laughter and wiped away a mirthful tear. “My friend! I never would have thought your job was one which such potential for hilarity!”
“Neither did I, until now,” Bryn admitted. He didn’t know what had prompted him to start with the storytelling session but now that he thought about it, a few of the people he’d encountered and the tales he’d garnered had an amusing edge if you could spin it right. All of a sudden his thought processes were working differently; he felt like a different person, and he found that he rather preferred the fun, new Bryn a lot more than he liked the negative, old Bryn.
“More roast spuds?” asked Lady Ramleigh from Bryn’s other side. “We’re cheating a bit with these, since they didn’t really eat a lot of veges in Medieval times. But we’re all a bit fond of our potatoes, so to hell with the history in that regard,” she said cheerfully.
“I don’t think I could fit in even one, thank you, my lady,” Bryn said, halting a little as the words rolled off his tongue. She beamed, looking extremely pleased.
“There, you’re starting to get the hang of our speech patterns already! His Lordship, the Duke of Bramshire, was quite right about you: you have quite some potential in you. I wager you would rise through the ranks and become a nobleman in no time, should you choose to join. Don’t feel you have to, mind. We’ve loved having you as our guest for the evening but you are under no obligation to become a regular member; it does rather consume all of one’s free time.”
“It’s not as though I’m doing an awful lot with my free time, I’ll be honest,” said Bryn, shrugging.
“You’ll consider it, then?”
“I’ll definitely consider it, yes.”
“Good man! That’s what I like to hear!” Fallworth bellowed uproariously from his other side, smacking him hard on the back. Bryn felt as though his vertebrae had telescoped down to his pelvis for a few seconds, completely winded by the blow.
He liked these people; far more than he liked most people. They listened to him, laughed with him (not at him - an important distinction) and didn’t take him for granted in any way; being in their company made him a bit giddy and light-headed, as though he’d downed a glass of wine too quickly. It was not a wholly unpleasant feeling.
“This means we’ll have to make a start on getting you kitted up and working out a persona for you and everything,” said Fallworth gleefully, rubbing his large hands together. “I can hardly wait! If you need any help, don’t hesitate to call me. I love helping newbies find their feet and sort out their first pieces of garb and weaponry.”
“That would-“
Bryn never got a chance to say what it would, because at that precise moment there was a terrible rattling noise, as of a million warriors’ spears clashing against their shields. This was followed by a whoosh like a gust of wind forced through a furnace by some over-zealous bellows. A chill shot down Bryn’s spine as he realised it was a sound he’d heard before, about a year ago: it was the sound of air being pushed around an immense pair of lungs.
“Oh, shit,” he breathed, ever eloquent in a tight spot. The diners around him were looking around in wary confusion, trying to identify the source of the curious sound.
“What the bloody hell is that?” said Fallworth, peering through the swampy darkness.
“I have a hunch, but I desperately hope I’m wrong,” Bryn replied. “I think...I think you may want to go get your sword. The sharp one.”
“Bryn, what’s going on? Answer me! I’ll-“
Right then, a sprinkling of tiles skittered off the roof and shattered on the ground with little tinkles of breaking pottery.
“Wh- there’s something on the roof!” Fallworth cried in alarm.
“Yes, so there is. Remember what I said about the sword?” Bryn said urgently, rising to his feet and attempting to get Fallworth to do the same. His mind pulsated furiously, trying to untangle the crushing web of uncertainty that was settling around the table.
This is really bad. Really, really, really bad. I have nothing with me; not one sed-dart. I have...a practice sword with a blunt edge. Oh, shit.
“Look!” shrieked Lady Ramleigh, pointing a trembling finger at the roof. At her feet, Terry fell about in a frenzy of barking and jumping, ready to defend the Mistress no matter what, unless the what was really scary.
A massive shape was hauling itself up and out of the darkness surrounding it, rising surely and ominously. The shape of two enormous wings unfurled slowly, then snapped open like the crack of a sail caught by a sudden wind. A low growl rent the air, rolling like distant thunder; but the source of this thunder was anything but distant. It was perching comfortably on the roof of the house, watching the proceedings beneath it with an expression of interested disinterest Bryn was all too familiar. For some reason, he preferred it on Chalk. A lot.
“That’s a-!” Fallworth choked, failing to finish the words everyone was too scared to say.
“-Draco maximus, yes. Now, about that sword, Tobias...” Bryn said quietly, finishing the thought for him before rushing him on to the next.
The dragon snorted gently, and twin puffs of smoke wafted into the air like ethereal meringues. It was not showing any violent intent towards the feasters, at least not yet.
Fallworth looked at him aghast with wide, fearful eyes. “You’ve been telling us this whole night that dragons are misunderstood, like sharks-“
“Yes, and just like sharks, this one is more than capable of tearing your limbs off before you even notice. Maxies are not misunderstood; the general impression people have of them is spot on. They’re huge, scaly bastards with wings, and on top of that this one has fire breath and a hormone imbalance. Why are you still here? Get your sword.”
There was a brittle silence. “Except...I left it inside. So that would mean going into the house, towards the not-so-misunderstood giant dragon who is currently picking his teeth on the chimney.”
Indeed, the dragon was gnawing experimentally on the flue, and gave a disappointed little grunt when it snapped off and rolled down the roof to clatter on the ground.
“Ah. I’ll admit that is a tiny bit problematic,” said Bryn delicately. Fallworth bit his lip.
“So, uh, you don’t have any of those handy kits with you, then?”
“I’m afraid not. I didn’t exactly expect to be working tonight, and for this type of thing I would normally have a bit of back up from my department. If we all stay quiet, it might get bored and leave us alone.”
“You think that’ll-“
The dragon evidently thought this was the perfect time to launch itself into the air, and did so with a gracefulness that defied physics and its heavy body mass. Roofing tiles fell to earth and shattered like hailstones with a grudge against the world in general. The sense of stunned calm that had descended over the assembled feasters was shaken asunder as the great creature took to the sky; it was replaced by panicked screams and the thunder of ten-odd people trying to get as far away as possible while still sitting down. The dragon paid little heed to this and lazily flapped away across the paddocks.
“Swords! Bows!” Fallworth screamed at the fleeing mass. He watched the dragon wheeling away and his voice took on a shade of hopefulness. “It’s leaving. Is it leaving?”
“That or it’s lining up for a better shot.” Bryn gave him a look so pointed you could cut yourself on it.
“Right, I’ll go get my sword, shall I?” Fallworth said in a small, meek voice, already scuttling away inside.
The rest of the congregation was scattering about the grounds, searching for weapons or hiding places respectively. Admittedly, most were leaping for the cover of bushes and artfully upturned tables, but then Bryn wasn’t entirely sure why he wasn’t joining them; he certainly didn’t blame them. Perhaps he wasn’t running because he had something resembling responsibility in this situation. He was, after all, the dragon control officer and the only one there who had encountered a maxie at close quarters. There were dismayed cries from those around him as the dragon doubled back across the fields, and Bryn’s heart echoed a similar sentiment.
Fallworth returned then, puffing like a steam engine but armed now with a length of industrial steel. In truth, Bryn didn’t know how much good it would do, but it was better than nothing.
“I got you this, too,” Fallworth panted. “I know- I know you only just used one of these for the first time, but it can’t hurt, right? Belongs to Harold of Rodley that, but I’m sure he won’t mind given the circumstances.” He thrust a second sword at Bryn, whose confidence was melting away even as he took it.
The dragon was thundering back through the air at them now, its legs tucked in close and neck extended to aid streamlining. Bryn could hear a low gurgling noise which seemed to be coming from the deep recesses of the dragon’s inner workings; this did nothing to restore his lost confidence.
“Let him come,” said Fallworth bleakly, obviously feeling a lot happier now he had a sword in his hand. Bryn might almost go so far as to say he was enjoying it; maybe he felt like a warrior of old facing off against an ancient and terrible foe. Bryn felt like a scrawny guy of under-average strength who had had a sword forced into his grip and been told he was going to fight a few hundred tonnes of angry, hormonal, fire-breathing reptile. Ironically enough, that’s exactly what he was.
“Actually, I think we’d be better off getting out of firing range. Follow me!” Bryn yelled, grabbing Fallworth’s arm and jumping to his right, aiming for a low brick wall surrounding the flower garden. He put down a hand and cleared it easily, followed by a slightly protesting Fallworth. The dragon was still flying unhurriedly towards them, getting closer with every passing second but in a very leisurely way.
“...should be standing our ground...show that thing what for...” Fallworth was muttering sulkily.
“Trust me: I’ve seen the size of the flames produced by the smaller dragon varieties. If I’m one to judge, a maxie flame should be-“
Suddenly, dawn broke. Or at least, that’s what happened on first impressions. What actually happened was the dragon opened its mouth and let forth a curling tongue of flame which burned white-hot and illuminated the house and surrounding lawns as bright as day. Everything sounded as though it was underwater as the fire raged, distorting all noise. The wavering drone of the fire was punctuated by occasional shrill, panicked screams.
As quickly as it had started, the flame dissipated. A number of trees were burning steadily, issuing great columns of heated air and ashen leaves into the sky. The lawn had been turned into a crunchy, black carpet and the tent had gone up like a birthday cake doused in gasoline. By some miracle, the house was almost untouched and, it appeared, the SCA members were also unharmed.
“Bugger me, baby Jesus!” Fallworth bellowed. “Did you feel the heat of it? Bloody hell!”
“You see now why I insisted we hide?” said Bryn, sneezing ash.
“Alright, Mr told-you-so...what now?”
“Um,” said Bryn. He hadn’t thought any further than this point. The dragon slowed and landed near the base of the hill, carefully folding its wings and starting to make its way upwards. It was greeted by a small volley of arrows, which stuck in the folds of its leathery skin but appeared to bother it as much as a mosquito bothers a bull.
“I guess that’s all we can do for now, but unless we incapacitate it quickly it’ll start killing people.” Bryn clenched his head in his hands. The dragon continued plodding methodically uphill, snorting in irritation as the arrows tickled its skin.
“It’s a shame you don’t have that ultrasonic squeaky thing,” said Fallworth. “I imagine that would get the big guy out of action in no time.”
Bryn cried out in frustration. “But I don’t have it! I don’t have anything! What can I do, what can I do?!” Somewhere off to the left, he heard Terry the border collie barking and it was as if a light had gone off in his head. “The dog whistle, that’s it! Tobias, I need to get to Gail. Do you know where she is?”
“I think I saw her go behind the banquet table, over there...yes, I can see her, look.” Fallworth pointed.
Bryn’s heart fell when he saw the wide expanse of exposed, charred grass between them; he was sure the dragon would appreciate a moving target.
He tried to crush the fear welling in his heart and took a steadying breath. “I need to talk to her, and quickly. I’m going to try and make it down there; wish me luck.” He vaulted over the brick wall before Fallworth could react.
“Bryn, wait-!” came the alarmed cry behind him. He was already gone, tearing across the blackened lawns toward the upturned table. The dragon halted its ascent up the hill to watch him, its eyes dilating as it did so. Bryn did his best to block out the hulking form, waiting in numb panic for a blast of flame which never happened. Something was clanking in the dragon’s belly, creating a noise like a spanner dropped down a pipe network, but the terrible flame was not forthcoming.
Maybe it’s out for the time being, Bryn thought as he scrambled ever closer to the upturned table. Maybe I have a few moments grace...
Blood hammering in his ears, Bryn skidded the last few feet and came to rest beside Lady Ramleigh behind the table. A half-hearted shower of arrows was still being directed at the dragon, peppering its hide with fletched shafts. And still, it seemed not to notice.
“Gail!” Bryn gasped, grabbing her by the shoulder. She screamed and wheeled about, terrified, but stopped when she recognised Bryn. “Gail, I need your dog whistle. You said you had a dog whistle for Terry. Where is it?”
The gears in her head were spinning freely, failing to mesh and understand what Bryn was saying to her. Despite the lack of comprehension, she said, “It hangs on a hook in the kitchen, by the door out to the laundry. Why-?”
“Tell you later. You should move, not safe. Find a more secure hiding place further up, it’ll be here soon.” Bryn jumped up before his heart could fail him, riding on a wave of adrenaline.
The dragon hissed when he reappeared and started to drag itself up the hill faster. Bryn could hear its enraged snarls, the cries of those trying to hide further down the slope as the creature got nearer. But it wasn’t interested in them; it was headed straight for the fast-moving thing running away from it: Bryn.
Get to the house. Get to the house. The words drummed on the inside of Bryn’s skull like a mantra. He focused all his energy on that thought, trying to drown out the terrible voice screaming at him that he was being followed closely by a lizard the size of a double-decker bus. As he passed by the low brick wall, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye.
“Over here, you great scaly bastard!” Fallworth bellowed, jumping up and waving his sword so it caught the torchlight and flashed viciously. “Go, Bryn! Run! Do whatever it is you need to, I’ll keep him off you!” He cleared the wall at a bound and charged at the advancing dragon, who glared at him and let out a seething growl.
Had Bryn been a romantic from the stories of old, he would have turned and extended a hand, and shouted something dramatic like “Tobias, no!” but he wasn’t, so he didn’t. He knew that would just waste time, precious minutes of which were steadily melting away like butter in the sun.
So he ran, hitting the front door of the house at a dead sprint.
Kitchen, where’s the kitchen...
He charged through the house, throwing open doors and trying to ignore the blood-curdling howls, snarls and shouts from outside. He found the kitchen quickly and immediately spotted the door through to the laundry. Just as Lady Ramleigh said there would be, the dog whistle hung silver and glinting in the pale light. He snatched it off its hook and twisted back, careening through the kitchen door.
He was met outside by a sight that made his brain politely tap his eyes on their metaphorical shoulders and ask if they were completely sure about this. To which his eyes replied yes, absolutely sure.
The dragon was surrounded by a bunch of SCA members who swarmed about it like ants defending their nest against a marauding blackbird. Every time the dragon lunged for one of the members, another would run in from the other side and sting it with a sword strike. Tiny droplets of blood were starting to bead from the arrow wounds the dragon had sustained, trickling down its flanks and staining the ground with dark spots. Smoke was starting to pour out of its mouth in a suspicious and menacing way, and Bryn knew he needed to act quickly to stop his new friends turning into reddish smears on the landscape. He lifted the dog whistle to his lips and blew as hard as his quaking lungs would allow. He heard nothing, but it was quite immediately obvious the dragon did. It made a strangulated noise and shook its head in annoyance, then pawed desperately at its ear as if hoping to claw out the horrible whine.
Heartened by this new turn of events, the temporarily mighty warriors jumped forward with a chorus of fearsome battle cries and started to lay into whatever bits of dragon they could reach. The great creature cried out in distress, too distracted by the splitting noise in its head to fight back properly. It made a couple of half-hearted swipes, which were easily dodged, and its face was a rictus of pain.
“Don’t!” Bryn screamed at them, pausing momentarily to shout and take a breath. Even in those short seconds the dragon seemed to perk up again, until Bryn started on the whistle again. The attackers paused, staring back at him uncertainly.
“Don’t kill it,” Bryn said shortly. “Just drive it away.” Every time he stopped to talk, the dragon recovered momentarily, so he spoke quickly and took sharp breaths to minimise the danger.
The ten or so people assembled around the partially incapacitated dragon stared at each other, shrugged, then started making the biggest racket they possibly could. Some grabbed swords off their fellows and crashed them together, some shouted, some clapped; all of them together made one hell of a noise. The dragon snarled in discomfort and backed off a few metres.
Fallworth lunged forward and kicked it in one of its enormous toes. “Yah, get back, you dopey lizard! Yah!”
Bryn was starting to feel dizzy from the lack of air, but even light-headed he could see the change in the dragon’s demeanour from death-on-wings to sick-of-this-rubbish. With a whiny little grumble, it flicked its wings open and doubled back, running and flapping hard to get off the ground.
“We did it!” Fallworth hollered, punching the air. “Bloody hell, we did it! Hahaa! Bryn, come here, my boy! We did it!” He grabbed Bryn and pulled him into a hug that crushed the last vestiges of breath out of his lungs.
“Can’t…breathe…” he gasped helplessly into Fallworth’s shoulder, the dog whistle falling from his grip.
“Oh. Sorry about that, sorry, sorry…” said Fallworth, bustling about brushing imaginary dirt off Bryn’s clothes and grasping him by the arms until he was standing more solidly on his feet.
Heads began to reappear, peering carefully from around makeshift fortresses as their owners realised the danger was gone. Then, they started to clap. Then, they started to cheer. With the adrenaline gone, Bryn suddenly realised just how very exhausted he was. He had but one request; he waited for the applause to subside before making his hopeful plea.
“Cup of tea?”
And that was the day Bryn Finch bested a draco maximus with a dog whistle. With the help of about a dozen over-enthusiastic SCA members, true, but why let that ruin a good story?
And as a "birthday present", have the next chapter of Dragon Control. So that maybe I can avoid the wrath of the Marabeast this time. :D
Chapter 10
“Bryn! You made it!”
“I did,” said Bryn, with a lop-sided smile. “I just figured I may as well check it out; it sounded kind of fun.”
“I hoped you would! Right then, come this way! I have a spare sword for you in the house.” Tobias Keats waved a hand, motioning that Bryn should follow him.
Keats was wearing a loose-weave cream-coloured shirt with gold stitching around the collar, sleeves and waist, and a pair of baggy wine-red trousers stuffed into some impressive high-top boots. Over this ensemble he wore a small red cape which reached his elbows, and an empty sword belt hung at his waist.
Bryn looked around, and had the strangest feeling of being out of place and dressed in funny clothes. He was surrounded by between ten and twenty people wearing outfits inspired by Medieval times, and there was Bryn in the middle, dressed for a day cruising downtown Hamilton. Even though he was the one wearing everyday gear, he was the one wearing the abnormal clothes.
It had taken Bryn a little while to figure out if he wanted to come along to the Society for Creative Anachronisms gathering. In the end, he decided that an excuse to attack something in a socially-acceptable manner would be good for his temper. He had a resoundingly bad feeling about the cretinous man who had foisted his company upon them that morning. Somehow, he doubted that it would be the last time they heard from Dr Ebenezer Crane.
A man wearing a green tunic with a hood emerged from the house when Bryn and Keats had almost reached the door. He saw Keats and inclined his head deeply and respectfully. “M’lord!” he cried cheerfully.
“Will Fletcher! I did not realise you were here. How goes things in the fair land of Dawnley?” Keats replied in a booming voice.
“Not bad, m’lord, not bad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Sir Cheney requires my help in setting up the sparring ring,” the man said, bobbing into another bow.
“Dawnley?” Bryn asked as the apparently-named Will scuttled off across the lawn.
“Ngaruawahia to you,” Keats clarified. “Most places in New Zealand have been renamed to be more...era-appropriate.”
“I see,” said Bryn.
It hadn’t been as difficult to find the house as Bryn had been expecting. As it happened, there had been a bus to drop him off at the end of Carwardine Road and he was able to walk the remaining kilometre or so to reach the house. It was a large property, surrounded by an expansive lawn that was in turn surrounded by paddocks and a few peacefully munching cows. The house itself was a jaunty two-storey number in dark wood. It had a touch of rustic about it; Bryn spotted several old pieces of farm equipment hulking in the woolly gardens, arranged artistically to add to the feel of the place. The interior was close and dimly-lit with ceiling lights which splashed shadows across the walls. The air smelled spicy, and ever so faintly of sawdust, honey, leather polish and varnish. Looking around in the hallway, Bryn couldn’t see a single ornament or item of furniture under fifty years old; everything was an antique.
Keats led him through into the lounge, which looked as though it came straight out of an Oscar Wilde book: it was every bit the traditional Victorian living room, plush and warm.
“Over here,” said Keats, heading for a bundle wrapped in dark blue cloth in one corner. From it, he withdrew a rather magnificent sword. “It’s not sharp, of course. We don’t actually want to hurt anyone. That’s not to say bruises and scrapes don’t happen, but it’s all part of the fun, really.” He slapped Bryn jovially on the shoulder and handed him the sword. Bryn smiled weakly, too overwhelmed to say anything else.
“This, on the other hand...” Keats bent over again and uncovered a splendid blade. It wasn’t overly fussy; there were no semi-precious stones set into the hilt or anything silly like that, it was simply a length of good strong steel. “This is my pride and joy. I had it presented to me when I was named Duke of Bramshire, just as I will pass it on to the next duke when I tire of the role.” He picked up the sword and gazed adoringly down its glistening length.
“Of course, it doesn’t see a whole lot of action. It’s more symbolic than anything else, but it’s still nice to own a real sword instead of these watered down models here.” He indicated the one now resting in Bryn’s awkward grasp.
“Do- do the other members have real swords, too?” Bryn asked, finding his voice at last.
Keats nodded. “Some of ‘em do, mostly the dignitaries like myself. The Lord of Axelham has the most beautiful longsword I’ve ever clapped eyes on. A few of the regular members have them as well; the really keen ones, you understand. They’re not cheap.”
“I can imagine. Well, thank you for letting me borrow this one for the time being,” said Bryn, starting to doubt the wisdom of coming along and feeling as though he was floundering horribly out of his depth.
“No worries! No worries at all! But we’re not done yet, my lad. Let’s have a look at you.” He stepped back and appraised Bryn, making him feel quite uncomfortable. “Hmm...I’d say you’re about the size of young Geoff, I’ll see if he’s got some garb going spare for you. I’m pretty sure I saw him out the front sorting out the feast situation. Wait here!” With that, Keats hurried out of the lounge, his empty sword belt rattling slightly as he went.
Feeling unsure of himself, Bryn set the sword down on the coffee table and perched on the edge of one of the plump sofas. His thoughts turned to how the populace was faring in the dragon emergency. He’d been keeping half an eye on the news and the ‘Sphere to make sure things were staying in check. Apart from the odd scorched barn in rural areas and occasional alarmed picnickers in bush reserves scattered around the country, everything was alright. He was pleased the release they’d sent to the ‘Sphere had received the response they had hoped for; practically every single report he’d read, heard or watched since had the same message added on to the end like a tagline: ‘if you find yourself in close contact with a dragon, keep calm and back away slowly. It will not attack if you give it no reason to. Under no circumstances should you attempt to physically engage the dragon.’
He wondered, with a small amount of relish, what Crane thought of their actions in crowd calming and the vindictive part of him hoped Crane was really, really pissed off by it. He was ninety-five per cent sure that the disgraced scientist would try to stir up trouble, but as long as the general public was smart enough to know a madman and a rabble-rouser when they saw one...
Keats reappeared with a young man about Bryn’s age hovering by his shoulder carrying a duffel bag.
“Here we are! Bryn, I’d like you to meet Simon, or Geoff Lachlan as he’s known around here,” Keats said, indicating the nervous man behind him. Simon aka Geoff Lachlan gave him a friendly nod and a smile.
“Let’s see what you’ve got in your bag of tricks then, Geoff,” said Keats, waving him over to a handy lace-draped table.
Geoff dumped the bag on the table and unzipped it quickly, then started rooting through its contents. “Right, what have we got here...” he muttered, apparently to himself. He pulled several odds and ends out of the bag, including two wooden goblets, a candle holder, a complete era-inappropriate drink bottle, a medium-sized piece of fabric and a dagger with a blunted blade in a scabbard.
“Here, try that,” he said finally, tossing a shirt at Bryn, who caught it clumsily. “And these should fit you, too.” The shirt was joined by a pair of trousers.
“I don’t have any shoes going spare I’m afraid, I only got the ones I’m wearing now,” Geoff said reproachfully.
“No, no, that’s fine. As long as you don’t mind me wearing my scungy old sneakers,” said Bryn, looking at the offending articles in question.
“We’ll let you get away with it just this once,” said Keats, flicking an admonishing finger. “Now, you get changed and then get yourself outside! I’d say we’re about ready to go with the sparring ring by now. Oh, if you want to have a try with the archery, you might have to smile nicely at Genevieve: she’s the one who oversees all the stuff to do with bows and arrows, and I’m afraid I didn’t bring a spare set with me today. I only got my bow and I hope you appreciate that it’s not something I let just anyone mess about with.”
“Understood. I get that these things mean a lot to you,” said Bryn.
“Quite right. If you end up joining and buying your own gear and garb, you’ll know exactly where I’m coming from.” Keats clapped his hands suddenly, making Bryn jump. “Well! I’ll stop distracting you now with idle banter and let you go get changed this time. If you just pop into the bathroom, down the hallway and third on the left. You’ll see it. Okay, meet you outside! Come on, Geoff, we’d better get you back to what you were doing.”
Bryn found the bathroom no problem and changed quickly into the unfamiliar clothes. They hung loosely on his lanky frame, but in a way that suggested they were meant to be like that. The shirt was pale brown and descended to his knees. He gathered it around his waist with a belt Geoff had also provided him with, which made it look a bit less like he’d cut a hole out of a sack and thrown it over his head. The pants were simple, black and baggy, tightened with a drawstring.
Bryn deposited his everyday wear in the living room by Keats’ bundle, for want of a better place to put it, grabbed the practice sword off the coffee table and then wandered down the hall and back into the warm evening sun. Already, walking around in the unusual garb, he felt a lot more a part of the gathering; he no longer stuck out like a crow among the budgerigars.
He halted at the door, taken by the sight: it looked straight out of a fairytale book. Women milled about in dresses of homespun cloth, carrying bowls of fruit and cooked meat. Men swaggered here and there, toying with bowstrings and testing blade edges. That’s not to say there weren’t men carrying food and women discussing the finer points of swordplay, and in that way the scene deviated from one of strict Medieval-ness, but the basic idea was there. Two large banquet tables had been draped with white cloths and piled with a potluck feast of roasted meats and vegetables, fruit and pitchers of juice and wine. People hummed around these two tables like wasps, checking places and chatting noisily all the while. A large, pale-coloured canvas tent had been pitched a little way away, in which people were storing some of the gear and treating as a place to sit, relax and avoid helping set up. Further down the lawn still was what appeared to be a purpose built sparring ring, where Bryn could see Will and a number of others shuffling about preparing swords and such. In the paddock over a small stile, the archery range was already prepped and there was a spot of shooting taking place.
All this was set under the brilliance of the almost-setting sun and the whole scene was washed with glorious golden-orange light. It was nothing short of idyllic.
Keats spotted Bryn almost immediately and called out to him, walking towards him up the hill. “Ah, now you look the part! Shame about the shoes, but we won’t bother with that too much, eh?” He flagged down a woman wearing a fine, royal blue gown who was walking past and introduced her with a grin. “This here is Lady Ramleigh, and this is her house. She’s kind enough to let this rowdy lot invade her property once a month! M’lady, I’d like you to meet Bryn, a new friend of mine.”
She smiled in an open, friendly way. “Nice to meet you! It’s always great seeing new faces at these gatherings. I know how overwhelming it can all be at first, so if you feel uncomfortable calling me Lady Ramleigh, I don’t mind if you call me Gail, at least until you get used to it. I- Terry, get out of it you dirty sod!” Bryn jumped back, alarmed by the sudden outburst.
“Excuse me a moment,” Lady Ramleigh sighed, then marched purposefully past Bryn in the direction of the nearby bushes. “Terry! Out!”
She reached into the bushes and hauled out a shamefaced black and white border collie who was licking his lips guiltily.
“Filthy dog,” Lady Ramleigh snarled, dragging the dog over by the collar. “I found a dead rat earlier and threw it into those bushes. Evidently, this one just found it.” She gently shook the border collie, who stared at her with a soulful expression that reminded Bryn of Chalk so much he had to close his eyes for a second to force the thoughts back down.
“He’s such a rascal, gets into anything and everything. But we need to keep him around because we use him for shifting the stock; you probably noticed.” She pointed vaguely at the surrounding paddocks where the cows continued to completely ignore the activity around them. “He ignores just about everything we say to him, unless we use the whistle. That’s about the only way to reach him when he’s in one of his strange moods.”
Bryn looked down at the dog, who looked back at him with the unmistakable expression of an animal caught in the act of doing something it knew was frowned upon by the Master and the Mistress.
Lady Ramleigh crouched beside him and crinkled his ears affectionately. “For all that, he’s our baby. Aren’t you, Terry? Yes.” She pressed her forehead against the dog’s and with that gesture he knew he was forgiven. Terry jumped up, tail a-wag, and bounded off across the lawn in search of a nice human to give him a morsel of food or two or three. Another lovely dead rat would do nicely.
Lady Ramleigh turned back to the two of them, smiling winningly. “So sorry about that. Anyway, Bryn, I do hope you enjoy yourself and maybe we’ll get to see you back sometime?”
“Er, we’ll see-“
“-I’m afraid I have to dash for now - there’s still a bit to do around the place before we properly get started! - but I’m sure you’re in safe hands with Duke Fallworth here. Farewell!” She bowed - a gesture which Keats returned - then flitted off in the direction of the banquet tables.
“Great piece of work that,” said Keats, nodding in Lady Ramleigh’s direction. “She’s been an SCA member far longer than I have, and she’s totally dedicated to it. She put the sparring ring in a couple of months ago, and it’s utterly brilliant. Speaking of...shall we have a quick go now, before they get done with the food?”
Bryn blanched. He was starting to get second thoughts about this whole deal. “Oh, I don’t...maybe another time. I’ve never used a sword before; I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
The cheeky glint in Keats’ eye told him he wasn’t getting out that easy. “Oh, no you don’t, my friend. You’re in the deep end now, and what better time to start learning? Come on, I’ll lead you through it.”
“Well...” Bryn hesitated. “Alright. But please, be kind to me and don’t laugh.”
“I promise nothing!” Keats said, already chuckling at the mere thought and leading Bryn down the slope.
There were a couple of people already practising in the ring, a young man and woman.
“-Thomas, attack is the best defence, remember!” the woman snapped as they came within hearing range. “One of these days, you’re going to have to land a hit on me; this year, preferably!”
“S-sorry, Janice...” the man stammered, his shoulders slumping. Janice turned as Keats approached and gave a friendly wave.
“Good evening, m’lord! Just putting Tom here through his paces. He’s getting better slowly, but he’s still rubbish.”
“Hey!” said Tom indignantly.
“You know I’m joshing,” Janice said, grinning. “You want the ring, m’lord? I think we’re about done here for now. Thomas needs to go nurse his crushed ego for a while, having just lost to his girlfriend again. Some knight in shining armour.”
Tom shuffled his feet. “Jan, you’ve been doing this longer than me...”
“You’ll get her back some day, Tom. Keep at it,” said Keats, clapping him on the shoulder. The young man buckled under the force of the blow and stumbled to stay upright. Bryn sympathised; he, too, had been on the receiving end of one of Keats’ hearty encouraging shoulder-claps.
The couple jumped over the low wooden fence surrounding the ring and made their way back up towards the house in the fading light, bickering the whole way.
“Come on then, after you,” said Keats graciously, flourishing a hand at the fence.
Reluctantly, Bryn hoisted one leg then the other over the wooden posts, hopping into the ring. He was followed closely by Keats, who immediately drew his sword from the sheath on his belt. Bryn did the same.
“Okay, I’ll just take you through the basics, because I don’t imagine we’ll have time for any more than that.”
Bryn nodded nervously, aware that people were materialising around the perimeter of the circle to watch; they always enjoyed seeing fresh meat getting flung around in the swordplay ring. There was no malice in this voyeurism, however, it was simply that they liked seeing how new people handled themselves and being reminded of how discombobulated they were when they first started themselves.
Keats was true to his word and didn’t treat Bryn too harshly, although he did laugh uproariously once or twice at some of Bryn’s more ungainly and awkward dodges which had him pirouetting like an amateur ballerina.
Despite the embarrassment that crawled throughout him, making it feel as though he was glowing red and burning in his skin, Bryn was surprised by how much he enjoyed the new experience of wielding the sword - blunt as it was - and feeling the hot strain of it surging through his muscles like quicksilver. By the end, he was bruised and battered as an old tin can used for target practice, but with the pain came a warming glow that illuminated him from the inside out.
“I think that’s enough for now,” said Keats finally, easily deflecting Bryn’s latest enthusiastic but inarticulate attempt. It took a moment for the cogs in Bryn’s head to stop whirring with adrenaline, but he nodded, panting gently.
Keats, also breathing heavily, reached out and grabbed Bryn’s empty hand, raising it in triumph as a referee does to a victorious boxer.
“Three cheers for Bryn! There’s potential in the boy yet! Hip, hip!”
“Huzzah!”
“Hip, hip!”
“Huzzah!”
“Hip hip!”
“Huzzah!”
The small crowd burst into rapturous, appreciative applause. Bryn’s cheeks were flushed with a strange cocktail of deep embarrassment at what he was doing, excitement, and a splash of pride at the fact that he hadn’t totally failed in his first attempt at swordplay. Normally, as a young man of twenty-five, he would heavily object to being called ‘boy’, but it didn’t bother him so much in this case because...he didn’t really know why. It was impossible not to like this group of people; they were wonderfully passionate about what they did, and a tiny bit mad with it. Maybe this was his unfound hobby, the thing that would make him an interesting person. Maybe this would be the turning point in his life. Looking around at the cheerful faces peering back at him smilingly, he felt his self-consciousness and embarrassment begin to wash away like the petering rays of the sun. For what was quite literally the first time in his life, he came completely out of his shell and did something he’d never done before: he bowed flamboyantly to the assembled crowd, one foot placed daintily before the other and hands a-twirl. It was far showier than anything he’d done in front of a group of more than three or so people, because of his constant fear of making a fool of himself in public; the fear that coiled around his stomach like a boa constrictor, squeezing out every ounce of his self-confidence. The little cheer he got from this small display set afire the flame in his heart once more and he couldn’t help but grin wildly. Perhaps he looked like a lunatic; right now, he couldn’t care less.
***
As the last crimson rays of sunset disappeared behind the crags of the distant low-lying hills, a number of torches, braziers and lanterns were lit to allow the feasters enough light to see their dinner by.
“...And then I had to help the poor old girl out of the bloody pohutukawa tree of course,” said Bryn, pausing to let the laughter subside. “She wasn’t hurt - at least, if you don’t include her pride in that - but I don’t imagine she ever set finger on a sleeping leatherback again.”
Keats - or Fallworth as he was starting to come to grips with calling him - roared with laughter and wiped away a mirthful tear. “My friend! I never would have thought your job was one which such potential for hilarity!”
“Neither did I, until now,” Bryn admitted. He didn’t know what had prompted him to start with the storytelling session but now that he thought about it, a few of the people he’d encountered and the tales he’d garnered had an amusing edge if you could spin it right. All of a sudden his thought processes were working differently; he felt like a different person, and he found that he rather preferred the fun, new Bryn a lot more than he liked the negative, old Bryn.
“More roast spuds?” asked Lady Ramleigh from Bryn’s other side. “We’re cheating a bit with these, since they didn’t really eat a lot of veges in Medieval times. But we’re all a bit fond of our potatoes, so to hell with the history in that regard,” she said cheerfully.
“I don’t think I could fit in even one, thank you, my lady,” Bryn said, halting a little as the words rolled off his tongue. She beamed, looking extremely pleased.
“There, you’re starting to get the hang of our speech patterns already! His Lordship, the Duke of Bramshire, was quite right about you: you have quite some potential in you. I wager you would rise through the ranks and become a nobleman in no time, should you choose to join. Don’t feel you have to, mind. We’ve loved having you as our guest for the evening but you are under no obligation to become a regular member; it does rather consume all of one’s free time.”
“It’s not as though I’m doing an awful lot with my free time, I’ll be honest,” said Bryn, shrugging.
“You’ll consider it, then?”
“I’ll definitely consider it, yes.”
“Good man! That’s what I like to hear!” Fallworth bellowed uproariously from his other side, smacking him hard on the back. Bryn felt as though his vertebrae had telescoped down to his pelvis for a few seconds, completely winded by the blow.
He liked these people; far more than he liked most people. They listened to him, laughed with him (not at him - an important distinction) and didn’t take him for granted in any way; being in their company made him a bit giddy and light-headed, as though he’d downed a glass of wine too quickly. It was not a wholly unpleasant feeling.
“This means we’ll have to make a start on getting you kitted up and working out a persona for you and everything,” said Fallworth gleefully, rubbing his large hands together. “I can hardly wait! If you need any help, don’t hesitate to call me. I love helping newbies find their feet and sort out their first pieces of garb and weaponry.”
“That would-“
Bryn never got a chance to say what it would, because at that precise moment there was a terrible rattling noise, as of a million warriors’ spears clashing against their shields. This was followed by a whoosh like a gust of wind forced through a furnace by some over-zealous bellows. A chill shot down Bryn’s spine as he realised it was a sound he’d heard before, about a year ago: it was the sound of air being pushed around an immense pair of lungs.
“Oh, shit,” he breathed, ever eloquent in a tight spot. The diners around him were looking around in wary confusion, trying to identify the source of the curious sound.
“What the bloody hell is that?” said Fallworth, peering through the swampy darkness.
“I have a hunch, but I desperately hope I’m wrong,” Bryn replied. “I think...I think you may want to go get your sword. The sharp one.”
“Bryn, what’s going on? Answer me! I’ll-“
Right then, a sprinkling of tiles skittered off the roof and shattered on the ground with little tinkles of breaking pottery.
“Wh- there’s something on the roof!” Fallworth cried in alarm.
“Yes, so there is. Remember what I said about the sword?” Bryn said urgently, rising to his feet and attempting to get Fallworth to do the same. His mind pulsated furiously, trying to untangle the crushing web of uncertainty that was settling around the table.
This is really bad. Really, really, really bad. I have nothing with me; not one sed-dart. I have...a practice sword with a blunt edge. Oh, shit.
“Look!” shrieked Lady Ramleigh, pointing a trembling finger at the roof. At her feet, Terry fell about in a frenzy of barking and jumping, ready to defend the Mistress no matter what, unless the what was really scary.
A massive shape was hauling itself up and out of the darkness surrounding it, rising surely and ominously. The shape of two enormous wings unfurled slowly, then snapped open like the crack of a sail caught by a sudden wind. A low growl rent the air, rolling like distant thunder; but the source of this thunder was anything but distant. It was perching comfortably on the roof of the house, watching the proceedings beneath it with an expression of interested disinterest Bryn was all too familiar. For some reason, he preferred it on Chalk. A lot.
“That’s a-!” Fallworth choked, failing to finish the words everyone was too scared to say.
“-Draco maximus, yes. Now, about that sword, Tobias...” Bryn said quietly, finishing the thought for him before rushing him on to the next.
The dragon snorted gently, and twin puffs of smoke wafted into the air like ethereal meringues. It was not showing any violent intent towards the feasters, at least not yet.
Fallworth looked at him aghast with wide, fearful eyes. “You’ve been telling us this whole night that dragons are misunderstood, like sharks-“
“Yes, and just like sharks, this one is more than capable of tearing your limbs off before you even notice. Maxies are not misunderstood; the general impression people have of them is spot on. They’re huge, scaly bastards with wings, and on top of that this one has fire breath and a hormone imbalance. Why are you still here? Get your sword.”
There was a brittle silence. “Except...I left it inside. So that would mean going into the house, towards the not-so-misunderstood giant dragon who is currently picking his teeth on the chimney.”
Indeed, the dragon was gnawing experimentally on the flue, and gave a disappointed little grunt when it snapped off and rolled down the roof to clatter on the ground.
“Ah. I’ll admit that is a tiny bit problematic,” said Bryn delicately. Fallworth bit his lip.
“So, uh, you don’t have any of those handy kits with you, then?”
“I’m afraid not. I didn’t exactly expect to be working tonight, and for this type of thing I would normally have a bit of back up from my department. If we all stay quiet, it might get bored and leave us alone.”
“You think that’ll-“
The dragon evidently thought this was the perfect time to launch itself into the air, and did so with a gracefulness that defied physics and its heavy body mass. Roofing tiles fell to earth and shattered like hailstones with a grudge against the world in general. The sense of stunned calm that had descended over the assembled feasters was shaken asunder as the great creature took to the sky; it was replaced by panicked screams and the thunder of ten-odd people trying to get as far away as possible while still sitting down. The dragon paid little heed to this and lazily flapped away across the paddocks.
“Swords! Bows!” Fallworth screamed at the fleeing mass. He watched the dragon wheeling away and his voice took on a shade of hopefulness. “It’s leaving. Is it leaving?”
“That or it’s lining up for a better shot.” Bryn gave him a look so pointed you could cut yourself on it.
“Right, I’ll go get my sword, shall I?” Fallworth said in a small, meek voice, already scuttling away inside.
The rest of the congregation was scattering about the grounds, searching for weapons or hiding places respectively. Admittedly, most were leaping for the cover of bushes and artfully upturned tables, but then Bryn wasn’t entirely sure why he wasn’t joining them; he certainly didn’t blame them. Perhaps he wasn’t running because he had something resembling responsibility in this situation. He was, after all, the dragon control officer and the only one there who had encountered a maxie at close quarters. There were dismayed cries from those around him as the dragon doubled back across the fields, and Bryn’s heart echoed a similar sentiment.
Fallworth returned then, puffing like a steam engine but armed now with a length of industrial steel. In truth, Bryn didn’t know how much good it would do, but it was better than nothing.
“I got you this, too,” Fallworth panted. “I know- I know you only just used one of these for the first time, but it can’t hurt, right? Belongs to Harold of Rodley that, but I’m sure he won’t mind given the circumstances.” He thrust a second sword at Bryn, whose confidence was melting away even as he took it.
The dragon was thundering back through the air at them now, its legs tucked in close and neck extended to aid streamlining. Bryn could hear a low gurgling noise which seemed to be coming from the deep recesses of the dragon’s inner workings; this did nothing to restore his lost confidence.
“Let him come,” said Fallworth bleakly, obviously feeling a lot happier now he had a sword in his hand. Bryn might almost go so far as to say he was enjoying it; maybe he felt like a warrior of old facing off against an ancient and terrible foe. Bryn felt like a scrawny guy of under-average strength who had had a sword forced into his grip and been told he was going to fight a few hundred tonnes of angry, hormonal, fire-breathing reptile. Ironically enough, that’s exactly what he was.
“Actually, I think we’d be better off getting out of firing range. Follow me!” Bryn yelled, grabbing Fallworth’s arm and jumping to his right, aiming for a low brick wall surrounding the flower garden. He put down a hand and cleared it easily, followed by a slightly protesting Fallworth. The dragon was still flying unhurriedly towards them, getting closer with every passing second but in a very leisurely way.
“...should be standing our ground...show that thing what for...” Fallworth was muttering sulkily.
“Trust me: I’ve seen the size of the flames produced by the smaller dragon varieties. If I’m one to judge, a maxie flame should be-“
Suddenly, dawn broke. Or at least, that’s what happened on first impressions. What actually happened was the dragon opened its mouth and let forth a curling tongue of flame which burned white-hot and illuminated the house and surrounding lawns as bright as day. Everything sounded as though it was underwater as the fire raged, distorting all noise. The wavering drone of the fire was punctuated by occasional shrill, panicked screams.
As quickly as it had started, the flame dissipated. A number of trees were burning steadily, issuing great columns of heated air and ashen leaves into the sky. The lawn had been turned into a crunchy, black carpet and the tent had gone up like a birthday cake doused in gasoline. By some miracle, the house was almost untouched and, it appeared, the SCA members were also unharmed.
“Bugger me, baby Jesus!” Fallworth bellowed. “Did you feel the heat of it? Bloody hell!”
“You see now why I insisted we hide?” said Bryn, sneezing ash.
“Alright, Mr told-you-so...what now?”
“Um,” said Bryn. He hadn’t thought any further than this point. The dragon slowed and landed near the base of the hill, carefully folding its wings and starting to make its way upwards. It was greeted by a small volley of arrows, which stuck in the folds of its leathery skin but appeared to bother it as much as a mosquito bothers a bull.
“I guess that’s all we can do for now, but unless we incapacitate it quickly it’ll start killing people.” Bryn clenched his head in his hands. The dragon continued plodding methodically uphill, snorting in irritation as the arrows tickled its skin.
“It’s a shame you don’t have that ultrasonic squeaky thing,” said Fallworth. “I imagine that would get the big guy out of action in no time.”
Bryn cried out in frustration. “But I don’t have it! I don’t have anything! What can I do, what can I do?!” Somewhere off to the left, he heard Terry the border collie barking and it was as if a light had gone off in his head. “The dog whistle, that’s it! Tobias, I need to get to Gail. Do you know where she is?”
“I think I saw her go behind the banquet table, over there...yes, I can see her, look.” Fallworth pointed.
Bryn’s heart fell when he saw the wide expanse of exposed, charred grass between them; he was sure the dragon would appreciate a moving target.
He tried to crush the fear welling in his heart and took a steadying breath. “I need to talk to her, and quickly. I’m going to try and make it down there; wish me luck.” He vaulted over the brick wall before Fallworth could react.
“Bryn, wait-!” came the alarmed cry behind him. He was already gone, tearing across the blackened lawns toward the upturned table. The dragon halted its ascent up the hill to watch him, its eyes dilating as it did so. Bryn did his best to block out the hulking form, waiting in numb panic for a blast of flame which never happened. Something was clanking in the dragon’s belly, creating a noise like a spanner dropped down a pipe network, but the terrible flame was not forthcoming.
Maybe it’s out for the time being, Bryn thought as he scrambled ever closer to the upturned table. Maybe I have a few moments grace...
Blood hammering in his ears, Bryn skidded the last few feet and came to rest beside Lady Ramleigh behind the table. A half-hearted shower of arrows was still being directed at the dragon, peppering its hide with fletched shafts. And still, it seemed not to notice.
“Gail!” Bryn gasped, grabbing her by the shoulder. She screamed and wheeled about, terrified, but stopped when she recognised Bryn. “Gail, I need your dog whistle. You said you had a dog whistle for Terry. Where is it?”
The gears in her head were spinning freely, failing to mesh and understand what Bryn was saying to her. Despite the lack of comprehension, she said, “It hangs on a hook in the kitchen, by the door out to the laundry. Why-?”
“Tell you later. You should move, not safe. Find a more secure hiding place further up, it’ll be here soon.” Bryn jumped up before his heart could fail him, riding on a wave of adrenaline.
The dragon hissed when he reappeared and started to drag itself up the hill faster. Bryn could hear its enraged snarls, the cries of those trying to hide further down the slope as the creature got nearer. But it wasn’t interested in them; it was headed straight for the fast-moving thing running away from it: Bryn.
Get to the house. Get to the house. The words drummed on the inside of Bryn’s skull like a mantra. He focused all his energy on that thought, trying to drown out the terrible voice screaming at him that he was being followed closely by a lizard the size of a double-decker bus. As he passed by the low brick wall, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye.
“Over here, you great scaly bastard!” Fallworth bellowed, jumping up and waving his sword so it caught the torchlight and flashed viciously. “Go, Bryn! Run! Do whatever it is you need to, I’ll keep him off you!” He cleared the wall at a bound and charged at the advancing dragon, who glared at him and let out a seething growl.
Had Bryn been a romantic from the stories of old, he would have turned and extended a hand, and shouted something dramatic like “Tobias, no!” but he wasn’t, so he didn’t. He knew that would just waste time, precious minutes of which were steadily melting away like butter in the sun.
So he ran, hitting the front door of the house at a dead sprint.
Kitchen, where’s the kitchen...
He charged through the house, throwing open doors and trying to ignore the blood-curdling howls, snarls and shouts from outside. He found the kitchen quickly and immediately spotted the door through to the laundry. Just as Lady Ramleigh said there would be, the dog whistle hung silver and glinting in the pale light. He snatched it off its hook and twisted back, careening through the kitchen door.
He was met outside by a sight that made his brain politely tap his eyes on their metaphorical shoulders and ask if they were completely sure about this. To which his eyes replied yes, absolutely sure.
The dragon was surrounded by a bunch of SCA members who swarmed about it like ants defending their nest against a marauding blackbird. Every time the dragon lunged for one of the members, another would run in from the other side and sting it with a sword strike. Tiny droplets of blood were starting to bead from the arrow wounds the dragon had sustained, trickling down its flanks and staining the ground with dark spots. Smoke was starting to pour out of its mouth in a suspicious and menacing way, and Bryn knew he needed to act quickly to stop his new friends turning into reddish smears on the landscape. He lifted the dog whistle to his lips and blew as hard as his quaking lungs would allow. He heard nothing, but it was quite immediately obvious the dragon did. It made a strangulated noise and shook its head in annoyance, then pawed desperately at its ear as if hoping to claw out the horrible whine.
Heartened by this new turn of events, the temporarily mighty warriors jumped forward with a chorus of fearsome battle cries and started to lay into whatever bits of dragon they could reach. The great creature cried out in distress, too distracted by the splitting noise in its head to fight back properly. It made a couple of half-hearted swipes, which were easily dodged, and its face was a rictus of pain.
“Don’t!” Bryn screamed at them, pausing momentarily to shout and take a breath. Even in those short seconds the dragon seemed to perk up again, until Bryn started on the whistle again. The attackers paused, staring back at him uncertainly.
“Don’t kill it,” Bryn said shortly. “Just drive it away.” Every time he stopped to talk, the dragon recovered momentarily, so he spoke quickly and took sharp breaths to minimise the danger.
The ten or so people assembled around the partially incapacitated dragon stared at each other, shrugged, then started making the biggest racket they possibly could. Some grabbed swords off their fellows and crashed them together, some shouted, some clapped; all of them together made one hell of a noise. The dragon snarled in discomfort and backed off a few metres.
Fallworth lunged forward and kicked it in one of its enormous toes. “Yah, get back, you dopey lizard! Yah!”
Bryn was starting to feel dizzy from the lack of air, but even light-headed he could see the change in the dragon’s demeanour from death-on-wings to sick-of-this-rubbish. With a whiny little grumble, it flicked its wings open and doubled back, running and flapping hard to get off the ground.
“We did it!” Fallworth hollered, punching the air. “Bloody hell, we did it! Hahaa! Bryn, come here, my boy! We did it!” He grabbed Bryn and pulled him into a hug that crushed the last vestiges of breath out of his lungs.
“Can’t…breathe…” he gasped helplessly into Fallworth’s shoulder, the dog whistle falling from his grip.
“Oh. Sorry about that, sorry, sorry…” said Fallworth, bustling about brushing imaginary dirt off Bryn’s clothes and grasping him by the arms until he was standing more solidly on his feet.
Heads began to reappear, peering carefully from around makeshift fortresses as their owners realised the danger was gone. Then, they started to clap. Then, they started to cheer. With the adrenaline gone, Bryn suddenly realised just how very exhausted he was. He had but one request; he waited for the applause to subside before making his hopeful plea.
“Cup of tea?”
And that was the day Bryn Finch bested a draco maximus with a dog whistle. With the help of about a dozen over-enthusiastic SCA members, true, but why let that ruin a good story?