GREAT FIRE

GREAT FIRE, by MR Timson, Artwork by Miguel Santos

 

They say all stories start with a spark, a fragment of a flame that drifts through the air, landing unnoticed on something ready to burn. The alchemists write that we all have fire in us, just waiting to be released. But to this day, I don’t know whether I was the kindling or the light.

Ask most folk, and they’ll say the whole thing started at a bakery, that the culprit was a hot oven and a dry thatch, but that’s not the truth of it. Truth is, it started on the banks of the Mersey one August morning. It started with me narrowly avoiding being sliced into ribbons and left for the gulls.

I was walking north to Rock Ferry, thinking of getting myself on a tall ship out of Liverpool. I had in mind someplace dry and warm all year round. Spain maybe, or Tuscany, somewhere far away from the trouble I was in.

The estuary was on one side of the road and a straggly wood on the other. I kept my hood up and I ducked into the bushes when I heard anyone coming, but there were few travellers about, just some farmers taking their goods to market and lone riders heading for the crossing. I was sitting in the grass eating some rye bread and cheese, looking out at the birds circling over the water, when I heard them, the men who had crossed the Pennines to find me, and had known my mind better than I’d known it myself.

‘Cat o’the Nines,’ the first man said. A Yorkshireman. His voice was like a big drum being beaten. A voice that was used to getting what it wanted.

There were three of them – two more than there needed to be – and they were cut-throats each. They wore brown cloaks over their gambesons and had thin blades sheathed at their belts. The one that had spoken      was tall and      sinewy     ,      with a thin black beard and long hair.      The second was short with a shaved head and dancing eyes. The      third was older, grey-haired and gap-toothed, with a hungry smile.

They dismounted and formed up around me, hands on their hilts. Seemed like they were in no haste to do the job, like they were the kind of men who enjoyed their work too much to rush through it.

‘Thinking about taking a swim?’ their leader said.

‘Reckon it might be a bit cold for me,’ I said. ‘But if you gentlemen wanted to take a dip, I’d be happy to keep watch on your clothes, and your swords.’

Their leader grinned. ‘Master Royce said you were a funny one. We will have to decline your kind offer, though I daresay you will be taking our swords in short order. You owe our master a weight in gold, Cat O’the Nines, and it’s a debt that wants paying.’

The killers drew their blades and began to close. I stepped back, but there was nowhere to go but the river. Suddenly, a swim didn’t seem such a bad idea.

Then there was another voice, musical and good-humoured. It belonged to a man in a grey cloak standing on the road. ‘I have business with this lady,’ the Welshman said, for his voice made clear his birthplace.

The cut-throats turned around. ‘You’re mistaken, friend. This is no lady,’ their leader said. ‘This is Cat O’the Nines. You know why they call her that?’

‘I’m sure you’ll enlighten me,’ the Welshman said.

‘Because she moves faster than the eye can follow, and if you get in her way she’ll sting like a whip. Ain’t that right, Cat?’

‘That’s what they say,’ I said. I was weighing my chances. The men were distracted. I could pull the knife from my boot and have at their leader. Might get a stab in before he could react. Might even kill him. Or I could drop my pack and take a dive. Neither seemed a good option: the odds were still too long.

‘What business have you with her?’ the leader of the cut-throats said.

‘My business with the lady is my business.’ The Welshman flashed a broad smile and took a step towards the verge.

The cut-throat cocked his head and turned to me. ‘Friend of yours, Cat?’ I shrugged. ‘We’re collecting a debt, old man. When we’re through with her, you’re welcome to what’s left.’

‘I have a better idea,’ the old man said. ‘I buy her debt, and she comes with me.’

‘Too late for that. We’ve been paid for a job. We mean to do it.’ The three of them lifted their blades, knuckles whitening as their hands tightened on the grips.

Then something heavy thudded onto the loamy ground that I could hardly believe: a gold necklace of some size, finely carved and inlaid with rubies. It sat glistening in the coastal mud at the feet of the lead assassin. He looked down, all three of them did, confusion crumpling up their faces as they tried to comprehend what they were seeing – more money at their feet than they’d get for murdering me ten times over.

‘Yours,’ the Welshman said. ‘But only if the thief comes with me.’

The cut-throats kept their eyes on the gold. Their leader’s lips were moving and his eyes were darting around as if he were trying to work out what the necklace might be worth. He looked up again, his mouth open, and I could see him trying to work something else out too, whether he should stick with what he had or put down another card. How much gold did the mad Welshman have on him? But he didn’t have time to work it out. There was a sudden breeze that lifted the hem of my cloak and blew my hair over my eyes, and then the old man was standing in front of the lead killer, the distance between them closed in an instant, the two of them now not a dagger’s blade apart. They locked gazes, and something in the old man’s eyes made the other think twice. He lowered his blade and stepped back, his boots making sucking noises as he pulled them out of the boggy ground.

‘Take her then,’ the cut-throat said. ‘But be mindful of what I told you about her. Fast as a whip, and just as friendly.’ He spat onto the ground, sheathed his blade and picked up the necklace.

They mounted their horses and rode off, not sparing either of us a second glance. And then it was just me and the old man, standing there on that windswept spit of land.

‘A thank you might be in order’ he said.

‘Tell me what you’re after first. That was an awful lot of gold to throw away on the life of a common criminal, old man.’

‘Idris,’ he said. ‘You can call me Idris.’

‘That your name then?’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘It will do. I bought your life because I have a job for you. The finest thief in all England. I’ve been looking for you.’

‘And I’m not taking commissions,’ I said. I began to pack my stuff while keeping a watchful eye on the stranger.

‘Not even for this?’ He held up his hand, and I saw something glittering there.

‘From the mines at Dolaucothi,’ he said. ‘And there’s more when the job is done.’

‘You have my attention,’ I said. He dropped the bracelet into my outstretched hand, and I turned it over in my palm, pressing my fingers into the hard, shiny surface. It was an intricate, interlace design – old by the looks of it, maybe even from the time the Romans ruled old England, back when the druids were around burning people alive as sacrifices to the old gods.

‘Something very important was taken from me,’ he said.

‘You should be more careful with your possessions.’

‘A beast. The kind of animal you won’t see anymore east of Offa’s Dyke. A dragon.’

‘I don’t deal in fairy tales.’

‘Call it a lizard, if you like,’ the Welshman said. ‘But it was mine, and now it is gone.’

‘Reckon I’d have a hard time lifting a dragon. I may be strong for a lass, but I ain’t no Beowulf.’

‘This one’s only a babe,’ he said, and he held his hands out a short distance from each other to show the size.

‘And where might I find it, this lizard.’

‘The Tower,’ he said.

‘The Tower of London?’ I laughed. ‘You’re as mad as the rest of your kind.’ I looked again at the bracelet. A girl needn’t be a stowaway with a piece like this in her pack. A girl could buy a cabin for herself on a sailing ship and have money left over to live the good life when she got to wherever she was going.

The gulls cawed overhead, and one of them darted for the water and brought up a fat, wriggling fish.

‘I’ll need another one of these, maybe two,’ I said. ‘And if I want out, I’m out. No comebacks.’

The old man smiled, showing off two rows of sharp and uneven teeth, and nodded for me to follow. He had a cart and an old mare a little further down the road. The back of the cart was full of sacks of coal.

The cart seat was hard on a girl’s arse, and the roads were poor, throwing us around with every mound and dip. Sometimes, was all I could do to stay upright. I was looking forward to a proper bed and some warm grub as we neared Shrewsbury, but we weren’t staying in no inn. Idris pulled the cart over to the side of the road and led the horse into the woods. ‘We camp,’ he said as he pushed his way through some giant ferns. The sky was a deep blue, the stars just twinkling into life, and the lights of Shrewsbury were so close. I gritted my teeth and picked up my bed roll.

We found a rough clearing, and I left the Welshman to set up camp while I took a piss. By the time I got back,      he had a fire going.

‘So how am I supposed to get into the Tower of London then?’ I said as we sat around the flickering flames. He was turning a coney on a spit, fat dripping off the little body and sizzling in the fire.

‘You’re the thief,’ he said.

‘Aye, and you’re the one with the pet dragon wants rescuing. The castle has a moat and two curtain walls, and a whole regiment of soldiers willing to open thieves from crotch to collarbone and shove their heads on spikes. Lions too, I hear they have. I am a thief, I may even be a good one, but I’m not a bloody army, and nor am I a wizard. I need a way in and a way out, and I need a way of getting it done without being seen. I’m handy with a knife when it’s dark and folk don’t see me coming, but put me up against a bloody Beefeater and I am one dead burglar. So you want me to do this thing for you, you best help me.’

He lifted the rabbit off the flame and took a bite from it right off the spit. I watched while he chewed and swallowed it down. ‘We walk in,’ he said. ‘We wish merely to see the menagerie, like all the other tourists.’

‘We walk in. All right,’ I said, nodding, and he handed me what was left of the coney. ‘And what about getting out?’

It took us three more days and a change of horse      to get to London. I smelled the city before I saw it, a stench like all the filth of the world was rising up to meet me. And there it was, the biggest city in all the land, clustered around a bend in the River Thames like a sore on a harlot’s mouth. On the north bank of the water was the Tower, the place that I knew I was more than likely to be killed in very soon.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually we made it      down the narrow streets of the slums and through the gate, passing beneath the murder holes and between the two square towers either side. The air was no better in the city proper. The timber-framed buildings were all too close together. Some of them leaned across the street so far they almost touched. The streets seemed several feet deep in filth, so that the poor sods on foot had to fight to pull their boots up after each step. And there were many of them, so many people I had not seen together in a long time.

We stopped at an inn called the Hoop & Grapes, Idris pulling up the cart in the coachyard and paying the stableboy to take care of the horse     . ‘Go get us a room,’ he said, slipping some money into my palm. ‘I will return in a few hours.’

I looked at the small pile of coins he had dropped into my hand. ‘Won’t be buying much ale with this, not after the room.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you will be.’ Then he smiled and shouldered his way into the crowds.

I weighed my options again. The Tower of London was not some merchant’s townhouse, it was a fortress made to keep people like me out, and other people like me in. And more gold was only useful so long as I kept my head on my neck.

But, in the end, I did as he asked           I got us a room and then settled down at a table near the door with as much ale as the remaining coin would buy. I sat there nursing my drink for an hour or two. Once or twice, a gentleman cast an eye in my direction, and I cast him one back letting him know he’d lose that eye if he cast another. Then, just as the sun was starting to go down and the serving girl lit some candles, a stranger appeared and stood beside my table.

He was tall and dressed in all the finery of the age: a black brocade doublet with brass buttons and a wide, frilled collar, a tall black hat and long, leather riding boots. His beard had been oiled and shaped to a point and his moustache curled up around the edges. Didn’t know what he thought he was doing in a place like that tavern, or what he was doing standing next to me. I thought I might rob him. It had been a while since my last bit of larceny and I had the itch. Then he spoke, and the shock sent my hand towards my empty glass.

‘Good evening, young lady. Might I join you?’

Idris’ voice was unmistakable, but it was only the      jagged teeth that convinced me I was talking to the same man.

‘And who are you supposed to be?’ I said.

‘A respectable London gentleman. The kind of man who takes a trip to the royal menagerie.’

‘You’ll need to work on your accent then, cos you still sound like an old clod hopper from Wales.’

He was looking at me and smiling, as if he was amusing himself with some secret I was not aware of.

I looked down at my ragged, stained doublet and trousers, my filthy old boots. Stink as they might, they were comfortable.

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head, because I could see what he was thinking. But he just      laughed, and from out of a cloth bag he pulled a silk dress and a French hood     . I hadn’t worn a dress since the day I’d run away from home, and I’d sworn I’d never do so again.

‘You’ll look pretty as a picture,’ he said, and I felt like smashing that empty glass into his smiling face.

It was another warm morning the next day. The mud was all drying out on the streets and cracking in the sun.      We entered the Tower through the      western gate, Idris and me and a flock of other gentlemen and ladies. They were all of a type, these girls, silly little things with curled hair and heaving bosoms, fanning themselves and giggling like children. The men were little better, in their stockings and horsehair wigs. Life was a lark to them. We crossed a drawbridge and went under a portcullis. I noted the thickness of those double curtain walls, the cannons lined up on the battlements, the muskets slung across the shoulders of the soldiers standing guard.

‘Just keep quiet, and do as we discussed,’ Idris whispered, slipping his arm in mine.

Once we’d crossed into the castle courtyard, we were greeted by a big man with a barrel chest and a thick, black beard.

‘Welcome      to the Tower of London,’ he said. ‘My name is Robert Bosworth, chief menagerist, and I am here to guide you through our den of fearsome beasts. Be warned, ladies and gentlefolk, for there are animals within these walls beyond your wildest imaginings: creatures from distant lands and, perhaps, even monsters from folklore itself.’ He grinned at us, very pleased with the sound of his own voice. I heard Idris grinding his teeth, felt his arm tense.

The first creature we saw was a white bear, a big but scrawny thing. Its fur was matted and it had bald patches here and there. It paced back and forth, black eyes down towards the dirty ground. ‘A great white bear,’ Bosworth said. ‘A gift of the king of Norway. Every day, a braver man than I takes him to the shore of the Thames for fish. Pray that he never escapes, my friends, for it is known that in the northern wastes these bears feast on the flesh of men as their primary diet.’

One of the ladies moaned and fell into the arms of her man. She recovered a moment later and we were on to the next poor creature.

‘Lions,’ Bosworth said, ‘our national animal. Though be grateful none of these regal beasts roams free in our great countryside. T’was only last month a poor lady ventured to reach a hand through these bars. She withdrew her arm a moment later, but alas, the hand was not returned.’

More swooning and cries of pretend alarm. The lions lumbered around in the shadows at the back of the cage, bored and uninterested.

Monkeys were next, rangy little things that huddled on wooden poles at the back of their cage. Then there was an elephant, a tiger and a camel. The cages had bare stone walls and floors that were covered in straw and shit. The air reeked of it, so that by the end, the ladies were holding perfumed handkerchiefs to their noses and clearing their throats every minute or so.

‘So concludes our tour,’ Bosworth said. ‘I trust you have all enjoyed your view of our little bestiary. I, for one, am glad that–’

‘I was informed you had a dragon,’ Idris said, and his voice had an edge like a blade.

‘Good sir. The patron saint of our glorious isle saw to the last dragon many moons ago. No such beasts walk the earth now.’

The crowd tittered, and Bosworth began to motion everyone towards the exit. The wealthy men and their ladies made their way outside, and it seemed to me that Idris had forgotten our scheme. The Welshman waited till the others had gone and then approached the zookeeper. I hung back a little, just close enough to hear them talk but far enough away to make a run for it if it came to blades or fists.

‘The… dragon,’ Idris said.

‘Does not exist,’ Bosworth said.

Idris held up a bag and pulled it open. Bosworth looked inside, and his eyes went wide with greed.

‘This way,’ the zookeeper said.

He led us across the courtyard and to one of the fortress’s many towers. Then up we went, step after blasted step to right near the top. I was dripping sweat by the time I got      there. Bosworth was panting too. Only Idris seemed unbothered by it, driven on by his sense of purpose.

‘This is my private office,’ Bosworth said, fingering a key from the chain. ‘This particular specimen is not for public viewing, at least not yet.’

He pushed open the door and motioned for us to enter. There was a small chamber beyond, made even smaller by the bookcases around the walls, each one creaking with volumes of all kinds. I thought of a dealer I knew who would make me a rich lass for just a few of those old tomes. But that was not why we were there. Hanging up above a big writing desk by the window was a birdcage. In the birdcage was what looked like a small lizard, a sinuous little thing the colour of autumn leaves. As I stepped closer, I could see it had two delicate wings. Closer still, I could see a thin trail of smoke drifting from its mouth, like the dregs of a campfire in the early morn.

‘Capture this one all by yourself did you?’ Idris said, stepping into the room.

‘The creature was recovered from the mountains of savage Gwynedd,’ Bosworth replied. ‘I have long believed these animals still roam these isles in part, and for many years have I searched. There was no sign of either parent. I wonder if perhaps it is the nature of these beasts to abandon their young.’

‘It is not,’ Idris said, and his voice had a heaviness to it I had not heard before, a doleful edge that was as clear to Bosworth as it was me.

‘An amateur draconologist, perhaps?’ Bosworth said. ‘Myself, I have studied the tales of these beasts my entire career. I shall make a close study of this specimen as it grows. I shall have to train it, of course, to ensure it is tame when I make a gift of it to the king.’

‘You cannot give what is not yours,’ Idris said.

‘God made man ruler of all beasts, did he not?’ Bosworth said. ‘Now, if you and your lady could take your leave, I have my duties to attend to.’

Idris stood with his hands balled into fists, but then I pulled on his arm and led him out.

‘We still doing the plan then?’ I whispered to him as we came back into the sunlight, but he didn’t answer. ‘It’s now or never.’

He grunted and gave a little nod, and I let his arm slip from mine. Bosworth had followed us down and now stood      at the bottom of the steps, fingering his keys. ‘Please make your way to the gate,’ he said, and it was then Idris began to cough. Great, hacking coughs shook him like an old cart rattling down a bumpy road. When Bosworth turned to look at him, Idris took his chance, and a cough that sounded like he was trying to push both his lungs out his mouth came flying from him, and with it a big gob of blood that spattered over the zookeeper’s doublet.

‘Father!’ I cried, in my girliest voice.

Bosworth stood frozen, blood spattered all over him. ‘My medicine!’ Idris rasped, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. ‘Get my medicine!’

I hitched up my dress and ran back towards the main gate crying about the medicine being in our carriage. Once I was around the corner, I pivoted to the right and down past an outbuilding     . There was a storeroom there, and once inside I ripped off the stupid dress and shoved it into a barrel of fish heads. I had my usual rags on underneath. Feeling once more like the thief I was,      I hid myself in a corner      and      waited. I trusted them not to look for me, Bosworth having bigger worries than a vanishing girl. They would turf Idris out, and that would be the end of it. Or so they thought.

I had been hiding undisturbed for a few hours when the storeroom door was opened. I heard the squeak of the hinges, the gust of cold air, but I stayed where I was. The room was full to bursting of boxes and barrels, and I was well-hidden behind it all. I was sure whoever it was who had come in would get what they needed and go out again without knowing I was there.

But then I heard a load of scraping and swearing, and I cursed my bad luck that I’d picked the one spot in the whole bloody place that this bloke wanted to get at. I slid my blade out and waited as the noise got closer and the barrels and boxes were pushed aside. It was just one man, or at least I hoped it was. I got myself ready to spring, so that when the barrel right in front of my nose was shifted, I was waiting.

But it was not some grizzled old Beefeater glaring down at me, it was just a boy, a lad in a black cloak with red trim. He saw me down there with my dagger, and he looked more likely to cry than run me through. But then he glanced back at the door, and I saw his partisan leant against the wall.

He turned, but I sprang up like a hare, vaulted over a crate, and was past him with my hands on the polearm before he’d taken more than a step or two towards it. He stumbled back again and put his hands up. ‘Please,’ he cried, but I was done with hesitating. I cracked the flat of the partisan’s spearhead against the side of his head and sent him sprawling to the ground.

He lay there groaning, and I made good use of the storeroom’s supply of rope to bind his hands and feet. It wasn’t as late in the night as I would have liked, but someone would come looking for this boy sooner or later, so I figured I had to take my chance.

There was no moon out. That much fell in my favour. The light from the torches and the shadows were long. I used them well, flitting from one dark perch to another, well out of sight of the guards.

The lock on the tower door was old     . No doubt Bosworth expected the two curtain walls and small army of soldiers would be all the protection he’d need for his treasures.

Folk think there’s a skill to lockpicking. Truth is, the only secret is to keep going. I twisted my pick this way and that, scraping and pushing against the rusted metal. The mechanism was stiff, and time was not on my side. I heard footsteps to my left somewhere and stopped, fingers reaching for my dagger again, but then whoever it was went away, and with one more push the lock clicked and the door swung open.

I crept up the stairs to Bosworth’s chamber. T     he dragon was at the bottom of its cage, curled up in a ball, scraps of half-eaten meat around it and some piles of red droppings. The cage door squeaked as I opened it, and the little creature raised its head.

I had held plenty of hens growing up, and wrung their necks many a time too, so I knew how to be gentle, how to keep the wings down as I lifted the little thing into a leather pouch. I was all set to tie the pouch onto my belt and make my escape when the creature pushed its head back out and sent a jet of flames straight at my head. I ducked, but I still felt the heat as the gobbet of fire surged past my cheek. The shelves of tinder-dry books behind me weren’t so lucky, and they went up like a solstice bonfire.

 

 

I was scuttling out of the tower when the first cries went up. I knew the flames must have been clear from all over the castle, but I didn’t look up. I kept to the shadows and prayed the little firestarter hanging from my belt would have the good sense not to light me up too. Guards were running from all over, and soon after a bell was ringing. I had planned a quiet grapple up the curtain wall, now I was pinned down in a passage off the courtyard as a troop of Beefeaters ran past. Light and noise, the last things a thief wants. I chanced a look. The soldiers were all down from the battlements, and while that was good, the fire in the tower was like a bloody lighthouse. I was about to slip back into the shadows when I happened to look over towards the main gate, and what I saw gave me a little hope. They were opening the gate to allow more soldiers in. Men were running about like ants whose nest had been kicked over. Light and noise might be a thief’s enemy, but confusion was a robber’s friend. If I timed it right, I could as good as walk out that gate without a Yeoman Warder laying a hand on me.

I kept close to the walls as I ran, dipping in and out of the shadows like a fish rising to the surface and then plunging into deeper waters, hoping to avoid the angler’s hook. It was as easy a run as I’d ever had, and soon I was by the gate. Black smoke was still curling up from the tower, but the flames had dampened a little. The men had formed a chain and were passing buckets up, and they seemed to be having some luck. I peered out into the open gateway just as a fresh bevy of soldiers came through. I pulled my neck in and waited for them to pass, and then I made my run. I was out of there like a fox freed from a trap, my heels pounding across the causeway and through the outer gate. Then I was on Tower Street, the dark falling on me like a cloak, and into an alleyway where no eyes could sight me no more.

Idris was at the meeting point as planned, in an alley next to a baker’s on Pudding Lane. He had the cart ready and was pacing up and down like a man in a cell. He stopped when he saw me, and both us stood for a moment and took each other in. I glanced up at the shuttered windows and stepped out of the shadows.

‘You have him?’ Idris said. He was out of his finery now, back in his old robes and tattered grey cloak.

I unhooked the pouch from my belt and held it up. ‘Little bastard tried to burn the place down on our way out, but nothing I couldn’t handle.’

He reached out for the pouch, but I held it back. ‘Job was more dangerous than I thought     .’

‘You want more gold?’ Idris said, sneering at me.

‘I want a fair wage.’

‘Your kind are all the same. I can get you more of what you want, but it won’t be till we’re clear of these walls. Now give him to me.’

‘Or what?’ I laughed. It seemed then there was little this tired old man could do, whatever minor sorcery he might possess. But there was a look on his face that made me want to stop torturing him, for that was what it was, holding the dragon so close but not letting him have it. I was about to hand it over when we were interrupted.

‘Father and daughter, reunited. How touching.’ Bosworth stepped out from the front door of the bakery. A company of men with swords and pikes came filing out after him, with a few more from the back door behind us.

‘I had you followed, of course,’ Bosworth said to Idris. ‘The moment you left the Tower. Pig’s blood tastes different to a man’s. Did you know that? It’s thicker, sweeter. Now a dragon’s blood, that may be the sweetest of all. I will have time to find out.’

He turned to me and smiled. ‘Hand the creature to me. Give me grief, and you will suffer.’

The alley was narrow, and the men at both ends blocked any hope of exit. The wooden buildings on either side were tall, and even Cat o’the Nines couldn’t climb them in a hurry. I thought about trying to cut the cart-horse loose and riding her out. With a sharp enough kick to her flanks she might make a charge at the soldiers. But the straps were good leather and the horse was old, and the men with blades would be on me before I lifted mine from my boot. Still, if I was going out, I’d rather it be with a knife in my hand.

‘Don’t do anything foolish, girl,’ Bosworth said.

‘It is you who are the fool,’ Idris said. Something about his voice had changed. It was deeper, and it grew deeper still with every word.

Bosworth’s sneer dropped off his face. He and his men looked at the old man behind me with the dread of those who see their own death looking back at them. I turned, and I saw that Idris was an old man no longer, and I finally understood why getting that little lizard back was so important to him.

At first, he was still the size of a man, though his wizened old face had grown dark red scales and his nose had pushed out into a sharp snout. But then he grew; his cloak and his robes were shredded, and a muscular, reptilian body emerged from the rags. His fingers became claws the size of butcher’s knives and a pair of wings emerged from his back. Some of Bosworth’s men began to run, and the horse bolted, knocking over those that didn’t. Bosworth himself seemed fixed to the spot. I sprinted past him and into the street.

Turning, I saw Idris still growing, his new body rising to the height of the buildings either side of us and then pushing out widthways and crashing into the walls. This dragon was nothing like the infant curled up in my pouch. This was a full-grown monster, a leviathan of the air, and in the fight between its body and the houses, the houses lost. The walls of the baker’s crashed down, the thatched roof fell in. Idris grew as tall as the Tower itself, his wings spread wide like the blades of a windmill. His head was as big as a draft horse, and when he opened his maw, I saw his mouth was full of teeth as long as my arm. He roared, and I had to put my hands over my ears to block the sound.

The noise broke the spell over Bosworth, though, and he needed nothing further to turn and run. The dragon loosed a great gobbet of flame after the zookeeper, and then he beat his wings and lifted himself into the air. His talons came down as he went up and grabbed me in their vice grip, and I could do nothing but scream as the great beast rose upwards. Beneath us, the houses were ablaze.

I was lifted high above the city, held fast in that giant, scaly claw. I well-     near messed my breeches, but in truth there was no danger for me, not yet. I held his child, and for that he held me. He flew up, towards the clouds, up towards the heavens where the likes of me were never meant to be, and then he set off, away from the city and out towards the dark countryside.

He flew to a hill overlooking London, and then his great wings beat more slowly against the air, and he came towards the ground. He set me down first, releasing me just a foot or so above the grass, and then settled himself nearby, pulling his wings in like some massive bird of prey.

I was on my knees, staring up at his glowing yellow eyes and the smoke rising from between his jaws. I opened the pouch and lifted out the little dragon, holding it up to Idris and trying to see something of the man he had been in the monster he had become. Of course, truth was there had never been a man there; it was just a trick, a glamour now cast off. He opened his mouth, and for a moment I thought he planned to roast us both, but instead he made a kind of lowing sound, and the infant woke up, lifted its head, and flew off from my hand with the grace of a butterfly. It lifted itself up and landed somewhere in the nest of scales and horns on Idris’ head. I thought I fancied I could see something of a smile on the creature’s face then, and I held my hands up to him.

‘I did as you asked,’ I said. ‘I got the little one out for you, just like you wanted.’

Idris seemed to nod, or at least he lowered his head a little and then raised it again. Smoke was still seeping from between his teeth, but the fire was not coming my way, not that night at least. He beat his wings again, making a great wind that knocked me onto my back, and then he soared into the air and was away. The last I saw of him was a great, dark shape against the moon, and then he was gone.

I lay back on the grass, closing my eyes and taking long, deep breaths until my heart stopped turning cartwheels in my chest. I had hoped for more gold, but I had at least made it out with my life, and that was a thing you couldn’t weigh on no jeweller’s scales. Then I remembered the bracelet, and I smiled. Not quite a fortune, but enough to get out of this stinking, wet country. I reached inside my doublet and pulled out the little pouch where I’d kept the bracelet safe next to my chest. It felt different, looser somehow. I untied the strings and dropped it out onto the ground. Coal. That was all there was there now. Three lumps of coal as black as night. I laughed, thinking of the old rogue and all his talk of the riches of Dolaucothi.

I sat on the grass and watched the city below as the fire took hold. I did not know then how far that conflagration would go, how much of the place the flames would consume. That’s the thing with sparks: they may be small things, but the fires they start can burn for a long, long time.

 

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MR Timson has had fantasy fiction published in a previous issue of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly as well as Swords & Sorcery Magazine and Sorcerous Signals. His story ‘Brotherhood of the Book’ appeared in The Best of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Volume 4.  

 

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.