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STRABO

Ben slept that night in a poplar grove a few miles south of the rim of the Deep Fell. When he awoke at sunrise, he began his journey east to the Fire Springs.

He took Fillip and Sot with him, despite their obvious reluctance to go. He had no choice. He was afraid that without them he might become lost or sidetracked. He knew the country reasonably well from his studies at the castle, but there was always the possibility of encountering something those studies had missed or becoming stymied through ignorance, and he couldn’t risk letting either happen. Time was something that he didn’t have to waste, and the G’home Gnomes would have to bear with him a little while longer.

As it was, the journey took the better part of three days. It would have taken longer if Fillip and Sot hadn’t appropriated a pair of plow horses whose day had clearly come and gone. They were so swaybacked and rough-gaited that it jarred his bones just to watch them amble about the campsite. Riding them was worse, but the pace of travel improved and they covered more distance, so he kept his peace. He never asked the gnomes where they got the horses. Moral principle took a backseat to expediency on this occasion.

They came down out of the forested hill country below the Deep Fell, skirted the broad plains of the Greensward, and passed east into the wasteland that stretched to the far rim of the valley. Their journey seemed endless. It dragged with the weight of a millstone tied about their necks. Ben was consumed by fear for his missing friends; too much could happen, all of it bad, before he would be able to reach them. Fillip and Sot were consumed by fear for their own skins; they believed themselves sacrificial lambs being led to the dragon’s dinner table. The three talked to one another as little as possible, uncomfortable with the journey, its purpose, and each other.

Ben thought frequently of Nightshade as they traveled, and his thoughts were not pleasant ones. It was bad enough that he had left Willow alone and unprotected when he had gone into the mists, bad enough that Questor and the others had come down into the hollows looking for him when he had failed to return that first day, and worse than bad that all of them had been whisked off to Abaddon and the demons on a whim, while Nightshade idled about waiting for his return. But it was unforgivable that he hadn’t made better use of the witch when he had held her captive under the power of the Io Dust. There were any number of things he should have done and hadn’t. He should have had her use her magic to bring the dragon to him—to lure it there, if nothing else. Had she been unable to do that, he should have had her use the magic to send him to the dragon. That would have saved three days of traipsing all over the valley on a plow horse! He should have had her supply him with some of her magic. A little extra protection wouldn’t have hurt. And he never should have let her off so easy—not after what she had done. He should have made certain she would cause him no further problems. Or at least he should have made her pledge to him in case she did escape.

But as the journey wore on, such thoughts fragmented, faded and died away. Should have, could have—what the hell difference did it make now? He had done the best he could; he simply hadn’t thought of everything. A pledge made under duress was probably worthless. Unknown magic was probably more dangerous than no magic. Things were better as they were; he would find a way to make do with what he had.

They reached the Fire Springs late on the third day out. The gnomes had taken him deep into the wasteland east of the Greensward, a country of mixed horrors—barren plains of desert sand and dust, hills of saw grass, scrub, and gnarled short trees, sucking swamp that oozed red mud and quicksand, and petrified forests where the trees were tangled, broken bones that jutted from the earth. The land had a wintry cast beyond anything that Ben had seen in the other parts of the valley, a washed and colorless mix from dying vegetation and broken earth. Even the Bonnie Blues did not grow here. The three had worked their way through hills and ridges grown thick with stunted briar and tangled brush to a forest of deadwood, cresting a deep ravine. They walked their horses, unable to ride them through the heavy undergrowth. Mist floated in thick clouds over everything, a blanket that smelled of the land’s death.

“There, High Lord!” Fillip cried suddenly, bringing Ben to a halt with a hasty tug on one sleeve.

“The Fire Springs, High Lord!” Sot announced, pointing into the distance.

Ben peered through the mist and trees. He couldn’t see a thing. He peered harder. Now he caught a glimpse of something flickering against the gloom—a sort of light that reflected on the mist.

“Let’s get a bit closer,” he urged. “I can’t see anything from here.”

He started forward again and then stopped. Fillip and Sot were not moving. They glanced at each other, then at him, then at each other again. Their furry faces lowered and their noses twitched.

“This is close enough, High Lord,” Fillip advised.

“As close as we’re going, High Lord,” Sot agreed.

“We have no protection against the dragon.”

“No protection at all.”

“He would eat us without thinking twice about it.”

“He would burn us to the bone!”

Fillip hesitated. “The dragon is too dangerous, High Lord. Leave him and come away.”

Sot nodded solemnly. “Let the dragon be, High Lord. Let him be.”

Ben studied them a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t let him be, fellows. I need him.” He smiled ruefully and walked back. He placed a hand on the shoulder of each. “Will you wait here for me? Until I come back?”

Fillip looked up at him, eyes squinting. “We will wait for you, High Lord. Until you come back.”

Sot rubbed his paws together absently. “If you come back,” he muttered.

Ben left them with the plow horses and forged ahead into the tangled undergrowth. He picked his way cautiously, trying to be as quiet as possible. He could see geysers of steam rising from beyond the ridgeline to mingle with the mist. The flickering light shone more clearly, a shimmer of brightness dancing against the sky. He could smell something as well—something unpleasantly reminiscent of spoiled meat.

Sweat and dust streaked his face and arms, but he was cold inside. He had been anxious for this until now.

One hand stole to the pockets of his tunic. What remained of the Io Dust from the emptied pod was in his right pocket. The full pod was in his left. He really hadn’t devised a plan yet for using the dust. He didn’t have any idea at all what sort of plan would work. His sole objective was to get as close to the dragon as possible and hope that an opportunity presented itself.

A King of Landover ought to have a better plan than that, he thought gloomily, but he couldn’t seem to come up with one.

He crested the ridgeline and peered over. A broad, misshapen ravine sprawled away before him, pitted with craters of all sizes and shapes, their bowls filled with an unidentifiable bluish liquid on which yellowish flames danced and burned, casting flickers of light against the shroud of mist. Tangled thickets and mounds of earth and rock clogged the floor of the ravine between craters, a formidable array of obstacles to anyone who sought to enter.

Ben looked the ravine over carefully. The dragon was nowhere to be seen.

“It figures,” he muttered.

He debated for a time what to do next. He could either wait where he was until Strabo returned or make his way down into the ravine and wait there. He opted for the second choice. He wanted to be as close as possible to the dragon when he finally faced it.

He slipped over the crest of the ridge and started down. A voice somewhere deep inside kept whispering that he was crazy. He fully agreed. He could not believe he was doing this. He was terrified of the dragon; he would have preferred to turn tail and run out of there as quickly as his shaking legs could manage it. He was not particularly brave; he was just desperate. He hadn’t realized until this moment exactly how desperate he was.

But I won’t let them down, he promised himself, thinking of Willow and the others. Whatever happens, I won’t.

He reached the bottom of the ravine and glanced about. Steam geysered sharply from a crater close at hand, a whooshing sound that startled him. Flames lifted with the explosion and flickered hungrily against the mist. He could barely see where he was going this close to the springs, but he made his way forward resolutely. He supposed that someplace in the middle of the Fire Springs might be the best place to wait—although not too far out in the middle. His breathing was quick and ragged. He wished he had command of the Paladin. He wished Questor and the kobolds were with him. He wished anyone was with him. He wished he were somewhere else.

Steam and heat seared his nose and mouth, and he wrinkled his face in distaste. The smell was terrible. There were bones on the floor of the ravine, some of them quite new. He forced himself to ignore them. Brush and scrub blocked his way, but he pushed steadily through. He skirted a pile of broken rock, a boulder cluster, and the skeleton of a rather large animal. He thought he had come far enough. There was a massive earth mound just ahead with a curl of rock at one end. It appeared a good hiding place. He would wait there for the dragon to return.

He wondered suddenly how long that might be. The Fire Springs might be Strabo’s home, but that didn’t mean he came there all that often. Maybe he came only once a year, for pete’s sake! His impatience with himself flared. He should have asked the witch, damn it! He should have …

He came to an abrupt and startled halt. He was less than a dozen feet from his chosen hiding place, the curl of rock against the massive earthen mound—and the mound had just moved.

He stared. No, he must have imagined it.

The mound moved again.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered.

A tiny cloud of dust rose from just above what he had believed to be the tip of the rock curls and a huge, lidded eye slipped open.

Ben Holiday, lawyer extraordinaire, intrepid adventurer, and would-be King of Landover had just made a very big mistake.

The dragon stirred lazily, shaking off the layer of earth and dust that covered it, and uncurled from its sleep. It kept its eyes on Ben, watching him the way a snake watches its cornered prey. Ben was frozen where he stood. He should have used the Io Dust. He should have turned and run. He should have done something—anything!—but he could not move an inch. It was all over but the shouting. He found himself wondering in a rush of black humor if he would be fried or sautéed.

Strabo blinked. The crusted head swung slowly about and the long snout split wide. Blackened teeth slipped free, and a long, split tongue flicked at the misted air.

“I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” the dragon asked.

Ben was floored. He had expected a good many things from the dragon, but talking wasn’t one of them. The fact that the dragon talked changed everything. It took the edge off the fear he felt for the beast. It revised in an instant’s time his whole perspective on what was happening to him. If the dragon could be talked to, maybe the dragon could be reasoned with! He forgot about being fried or sautéed. He forgot about defending himself. He searched instead for something to say in reply.

Strabo’s head snapped up. “The mists at the edge of the fairy world—that’s where I saw you. Several weeks ago wasn’t it? I was asleep and you wandered past me. Stared at me so hard you woke me. Rude of you to do that, I might add.” He paused. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Ben nodded mechanically, an image flashing in his mind of the dragon blowing him away head-over-heels like a feather caught in the wind. He brushed the image aside. He was still unable to believe that he was actually hearing the beast talk. The dragon had an odd voice, a sort of machinelike hiss that reverberated as if released from an echo chamber.

“Who are you?” the dragon asked, head lowering again. “What were you doing in the mists?” He showed his teeth as his lips curled back from his gums. “Are you one of the fairies?”

Ben shook his head. “No, I’m not.” He gathered his wits quickly now. “I’m Ben Holiday, from Chicago. From another world, really. I’m Landover’s new King.”

“Are you?” The dragon seemed unimpressed.

“Yes.” Ben hesitated, his courage slowly returning. “You know, I didn’t think dragons talked.”

Strabo shifted his bulk slightly, undulating his long, serpentine body so that his backside rested against a series of smaller pools, the flames dancing close against his scaled hide. “Oh, one of those,” he sniffed.

Ben frowned. “One of which?”

“One of those humans who think dragons are illiterate, mindless beasts who spend their time wreaking havoc on poor, hard-working, simple folk until some champion appears to do them in. You’re one of those, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“You read too many fairy tales, Holiday. Who do you think spreads those stories about dragons? Not the dragons, you can be sure. No, humans spread those stories, and humans are not about to characterize themselves as the bad folk and the dragon as the one mistreated, are they? You must consider the source, as they say. It is much easier to cast the dragon as the villain—burning fields, devouring livestock and peasants, seizing beautiful princesses, and challenging knights in armor. It all makes great reading, even if it isn’t the truth.”

Ben stared. What kind of dragon was this?

“There were dragons before there were humans, you know. There were dragons before most of the fairy creatures came into being.” Strabo bent down. His breath was terrible. “The trouble didn’t start with the dragons; it started with the others. No one wanted the dragons around. The dragons took up too much space. Everyone was frightened of the dragons and what they were capable of doing—never mind that it was only a few giving the rest a bad name! And our magic was so much stronger than theirs that they could not control us as they wished.”

The crusted head shook slowly. “But there are always ways of getting what you want if you work hard enough at it, and they worked very hard at getting rid of us. We were exiled, hunted, and destroyed, one after the other, until now there is only me. And they would destroy me as well, if they could.”

He didn’t specify who “they” were, but Ben guessed he meant everyone in general. “Are you saying you aren’t responsible for any of the things for which you are blamed?” he asked, looking a bit doubtful.

“Oh, don’t be stupid, Holiday—of course I’m responsible! I’m responsible for practically all of them!” The voice hissed softly. “I kill the humans and their tame animals when I wish. I burn out their crops and homes if I choose. I steal their mates because it pleases me. I hate them.”

The tongue flicked. “But it wasn’t always so, you see. It wasn’t so until it became easier for me to be the thing they thought me than to try to survive as the creature I once was …” He trailed off, as if remembering. “I’ve been alive for almost a thousand years, you know, and all alone for the past two hundred of those. There are no more dragons. They’re all legends. I’m all there is—like the Paladin. You know of him, Holiday? We’re both the last of our kind.”

Ben watched the dragon nuzzle at a Fire Spring, drinking the burning waters, inhaling the flames slowly. “Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

The dragon looked up. “Because you’re here.” The snout dipped. “Why are you here, by the way?”

Ben hesitated, remembering suddenly what had brought him. “Well …”

“Oh, yes.” The dragon cut him short. “You’re Landover’s newest King. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I haven’t been at it very long.”

“No, I assume not—otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“I wouldn’t?”

“Hardly.” The dragon bent closer. “When the old King was alive, he kept me exiled here in this wasteland. I was forbidden the rest of the valley. The Paladin was used to keep me here because the Paladin was as strong as I. I flew the skies at night, sometimes, but could not let myself be seen by the humans nor interfere in their lives …” The dragon’s voice had grown hard. “I promised myself that one day I would be free again. This valley was as much mine as anyone’s. And when the old King died and the Paladin disappeared, I was free, Holiday—and no King of Landover shall ever put me back again.”

Ben was aware of a none-too-subtle shift in the atmosphere between them, but he pretended not to notice. “I’m not here for that,” he said.

“But you are here to ask for my pledge to the throne, aren’t you?”

“I’d thought about it,” Ben admitted.

Strabo’s snout split wide with a low, hissing laugh. “Such courage, Holiday! Wasted, though. I have never given my pledge to Landover’s Kings—never, in the thousand years of my life. Why should I? I am not as those others who live here! I am not confined to Landover as they! I can travel anywhere I choose!”

Ben swallowed. “You can?”

The dragon shifted, tail curling back behind Ben. “Well … not anywhere, I suppose. But almost anywhere. I cannot travel deep into the fairy world nor into worlds where they do not believe in dragons. Do they believe in dragons in your world?”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“That explains why I have never been there. I travel only to lands where dragons are real—or, at least, where dragons once were real. I frequent half a dozen worlds close at hand. Most I have hunted. I had to hunt them when the old King forbid me the valley.” His look turned sly, eyes lidding. “But hunting beyond the valley is more work than I care to do. It is easier to hunt here. It is more satisfying!”

The atmosphere had now gone decidedly chilly. The dragon could be talked to, but it looked doubtful that he could be reasoned with. Ben felt doors closing all about him. “Well, I don’t suppose that there’s much point in my suggesting that you do anything else then, is there?”

Strabo lifted slightly on his hind legs, dust rising from his massive body. “I have enjoyed our conversation, Holiday, but it appears to be at an end. Unfortunately, that means the end of you.”

“Oh, wait a minute, let’s not be so hasty.” Ben couldn’t get the words out fast enough, his mind racing. “Our conversation doesn’t have to be over, does it? I think we should talk a bit more!”

“I can understand why you might want to,” the dragon hissed softly. “But I grow bored.”

“Bored! Okay, let’s change the subject!”

“That wouldn’t help.”

“No? Well, how about if I just leave, then—just walk away, say good-bye, so long?” Ben was desperate now.

The dragon loomed above him, a huge, scaled shadow. “That just postpones the inevitable. Eventually you would come back again. You would have to, because you are Landover’s King. Face it, Holiday—I am the enemy. Either you have to destroy me or I have to destroy you. I much prefer the latter.”

Ben glanced about wildly. “For God’s sake, why does one of us have to destroy the other?”

“Why? Because that’s the way it is between dragons and Kings. That’s the way it’s always been.”

Ben’s frustration had reached the breaking point. “Well if that’s the way it’s always been, then why the long dissertation on the disservice being done to dragons by story-telling humans? Why did you waste time telling me all that if you planned to fry me right after?”

The dragon actually laughed. “What a quaint way of putting it!” He paused. “Yes, why bother telling you anything under the circumstances? Good point.” He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose because it was something to do. There’s not a lot to do out here, you know.”

Ben felt the last of his hope drain away. This was the end. He had dodged one silver bullet in the mists of the fairy world and a second in his confrontation with Nightshade. But this third one was going to do him in. He watched the dragon lift higher above him and begin to inhale slowly. One blast of fire and that would be it. His mind worked frantically. He had to do something! Damn it, he couldn’t just stand there and let himself be incinerated!

“Wait!” he called out sharply. “Don’t do it!” His hand reached into his tunic front and yanked free the medallion. “I still have this! I’ll use its magic if I have to.”

Strabo exhaled slowly, steam, smoke and flame singeing the misted air. He stared at the medallion and his tongue licked out. “You don’t command the magic, Holiday.”

Ben took a deep breath. “You’re wrong. I do. I’ll bring the Paladin if you don’t let me go.”

There was a long moment of silence. The dragon studied him thoughtfully and said nothing. Ben sent up a silent prayer. This was his last hope. The Paladin had come to him before when he was in trouble. Maybe …

His hand tightened about the face of the medallion, feeling the engraved surface press against his palm. A sudden, unexpected revelation came to him. What was he thinking? He could escape right now, if he chose! He had forgotten momentarily that the medallion gave him the means to do so! The medallion would take him back to his old world in an instant—all he had to do was take it off!

But that would mean leaving his friends trapped in Abaddon. That would mean leaving Landover forever. That would mean giving up.

That would also mean staying alive. He weighed the prospect, undecided. “I think you’re lying, Holiday,” the dragon said suddenly and began to breathe in again.

Good-bye, world, Ben thought and prepared to make a futile dash for safety.

But suddenly there was a sharp glimmer of light through the mist and steam that rose above the flames of the springs, and the Paladin did appear! Ben could not believe it. The knight materialized out of nothingness, a solitary, battered form atop his aging mount, lance hoisted in the crook of one arm before him. Strabo turned at once, clearly startled. Flames burst from his maw in an explosive roar, enveloped the knight and horse, and died into smoke. Ben flinched, feeling the backlash of the tremendous heat. He turned away, shielding his eyes, then quickly looked back again.

The Paladin was unharmed.

Strabo rose slowly on his massive hind legs, wings lifting like a shield, lidded eyes casting about to find Ben again. “Twenty years—it’s been twenty years!” he whispered in a low hiss. “I thought him gone forever! How did you bring him back, Holiday? How?”

Ben started to stammer something in reply, as surprised as Strabo by the Paladin’s reappearance, then quickly caught himself. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for.

“The medallion!” he exclaimed at once. “The medallion brought him! The words of magic are inscribed here—on the medallion’s back! Look for yourself!”

He held the disk out obligingly, dangling it from its silver chain so that the misted light reflected brightly from its surface. Strabo bent down, serpentine neck angling from his massive body, crusted head drawing close. The huge maw split open, the long tongue licking. Ben caught his breath. The dragon’s shadow fell over him, blocking away the light.

“Look—you can see the writing!” Ben urged and thought, just a little closer …

One hooked foreleg reached for the medallion.

Ben’s free hand jerked clear of his tunic pocket, and he flung a fistful of the Io Dust directly into Strabo’s nostrils. The dragon inhaled in surprise, then sneezed. The sneeze nearly blew Ben off his feet, but somehow he held his ground. He snatched back the medallion, reached into his other pocket and produced the pod. Strabo’s head was already swinging about to find him, jaws widening. Ben hurled the pod into the open maw. The dragon was quick, catching the pod in midair, biting down on it in fury, grinding it into pulp.

Too late Strabo realized his mistake. Io Dust flew everywhere, expoding from the dragon’s mouth in jets of white smoke. Strabo gave a dreadful roar and flames burst forth. Ben threw himself aside, rolled twice, scrambled to his feet again and raced for the clump of boulders he had passed coming in. He gained it half a dozen yards ahead of the fire and dove frantically behind it. Strabo had gone completely beserk. He was thrashing above the floor of the Fire Springs in a frenzy, his massive body smashing earth and rock alike. A crater of flames geysered skyward with a booming cough. The dragon roared and breathed fire everywhere. Flames and smoke filled the afternoon air, obscuring everything. The Paladin disappeared. The springs disappeared. Ben huddled in his shelter and prayed he had been quick enough that the dragon had lost sight of him.

After a time, the thrashing and the flames ceased, and it grew quiet again. Ben waited patiently in his shelter, listening to the muffled sounds of the dragon as he moved slowly about. The booming explosions of the Fire Springs faded back into a soft hissing.

“Holiday?”

The dragon’s voice was harsh with anger. Ben stayed where he was.

“Holiday? That was Io Dust, Holiday! That was an entire pod of Io Dust! Where did you get it? You said you weren’t one of the fairies! You lied!”

Ben waited. He hadn’t heard anything he liked yet. He listened as Strabo moved somewhere off to his left—listened to the heavy sound of his body dragging.

“Do you know how dangerous such magic is, Holiday? Do you know the harm you could have caused me? Why did you trick me like that?”

The moving stopped. Ben heard the dragon shift himself, then heard the sound of drinking. Maybe he had made a mistake, he thought suddenly. Maybe an entire pod of Io Dust was too much for anyone. Maybe the dragon was hurt.

There was a lengthy sigh. “Holiday, why have you done this to me? What is it that you want of me? Tell me and be done with it!”

The dragon sounded more hurt than angry. Ben decided to risk it. “I want your word that you will do nothing to harm me!” he called out.

The dragon’s reply was a soft hiss. “You have it.”

“I want you to tell me that you will do whatever I tell you to do and nothing else. You have to anyway, you know.”

“I know, Holiday! I agree! Tell me what it is that you want!”

Ben slipped cautiously from behind the shelter of the boulders. Streamers of mist and smoke still hung over the pit of the Fire Springs, casting everything in an eerie half-light. Strabo crouched several dozen yards away between a series of burning craters, looking like an angry, trapped animal. His ugly, crusted head swung slowly about, lidded eyes catching sight of Ben. Ben tensed, prepared to dive back behind the boulders. But the dragon only looked at him and waited.

“Come over here,” Ben ordered.

The dragon came—meekly. There was undisguised hatred in his eyes. Ben watched the monster approach. The barrel-shaped body hunched along above thick, armored legs. Wings flapped with the movement, and the long tail snaked about restlessly. Ben felt like Fay Wray with King Kong.

“Set me free!” Strabo demanded. “Set me free, and I’ll let you live!”

Ben shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

“You mean you won’t!” the dragon whispered, his voice like sandpaper rubbed across slate. “But you can’t keep me like this forever, and when I do get free of you …”

“Let’s just skip the threats, shall we?”

“… there won’t be enough left of you to fill a gnome’s thimble goblet, not enough to feed the smallest cave wight—and I’ll cause you such pain that you won’t believe …”

“Are you ready to listen to me?”

The dragon’s head lifted disdainfully. “I won’t pledge to you, Holiday! It would mean nothing given this way!”

Ben nodded. “I understand that. I don’t want your pledge.”

There was a long moment of silence as the dragon studied him. The hatred in the beast’s eyes had given way to curiosity. It appeared that the worst was over. The dragon was his—for the moment, at least. Ben felt a welcome easing of tension within himself, a dissipation of the fear and sharp anticipation. He had dodged silver bullet number three. He still held the medallion clasped tightly in one hand, and he slipped it back into his tunic now. He glanced about momentarily for the Paladin, but the knight had disappeared again.

“Like a ghost …” he murmured.

He turned back to the dragon. Strabo was still studying him. The wicked tongue licked nervously at the misted air. “Very well, Holiday. I give up. What do you want from me?”

Ben smiled. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, and I’ll tell you.”