The Saint of Dragons

The Original Dragon-hunter

DAYS BEFORE THIS, IN an old suburban town near Chicago, Illinois, far from the Lighthouse School for Boys, five men rode their horses down a street frosted with autumn leaves. The sight would have been a strange one had anyone bothered to look out their window. No one did. It was a quiet part of town. Quiet folks lived there, mostly old people, and they minded their own business. It was as if a spell kept them half asleep most of the time. 

But if anyone had bothered to look out their window, they would have seen that it wasn't just the arrival of horses that was strange. The riders were dressed in dull, iron-colored armor with ornate writing carved into the metal, a runic writing so old and so secret no one would have recognized it. 

The man in the middle was tall and strong, though not as stocky as the others. He had the beginnings of a beard that would have been gray if he'd let it go further. His hair was black and gray, and long and greasy, and he kept it swept back, out of his way. His face was handsomely chiseled, if you could see it under the dirt and the occasional scars. He had not washed for days. He had been on the road a long time. 

"This is it," he said to the other men. "The time is now." His voice was deep and painted with an English accent. 

He looked to a taller Englishman, who nodded. The tall one gave the others a grave smile and said, "Aldric is right. Let's not give the wretch time to think." 

The men put on their helmets. They were now covered head to toe in armor. 

Each helmet was an angular box with tiny slits for the eyes, in the Crusader style. They were marked with a small symbol looking like across mixed with the fleur-de-lis; every warrior's symbol was a different color. 

The horses were in an awful state of agitation. They fidgeted backward and side to side, preparing themselves for the fight ahead. 

Ahead of them lay a stone wall and a wrought-iron gate, and a stone house taller than the others nearby. The place looked haunted. It had two round turrets with long windows, though the curtains were always pulled shut. Rarely did sunlight enter this home. 

The trees in the yard were dead and rotting. Beetles swarmed around their exposed roots. The twisted branches were home to the skeletal remains of many birds that had died in them as soon as they landed. The house itself smelled rancid, and whoever did the gardening, such as it was, constantly replanted perennials to cover the stink, but these flowers always died. 

The riders moved forward, and the lead man pulled at his horse so that it reared up with its huge front legs and smashed open the front gate. There was no point in being silent. A surprise attack was virtually impossible. The thing at the heart of the house would have known they were coming no matter what. Its teeth would have started to ache the moment the men came within a hundred yards. It could sense them closing in. 

The horses clomped across the dead yellow grass. It was getting hot now. The men were sweating in their armor. They each carried a long metal lance, which they now raised into position.

 The lead horseman pushed open the front door with his lance and urged his horse forward. The others followed close behind.

 The house had a long entryway and then a set of stairs. Little could be seen in the dim light. The smell was almost overpowering. The thing had not moved from this place in years. 

"It's not coming out," said one of the horsemen. He was Irish. "We'll have to ferret him out." 

"He's coming," said the leader. 

"Indeed I am," said a chilling voice. It seemed to come from their right, and then their left, and even behind them, offering no clues to the beast's whereabouts.