Dragonfire (4 page)

Dawn was just breaking next morning when Neil and Clara, followed by Sir James, Jamie Todd and the Ranger, walked along a narrow path on the slopes of Arthur’s Seat. Neil stopped from time to time as if to take his bearings and then, more confidently, moved off the path towards a rocky outcrop.

“I think it’s over here, Dad. They always seemed to move towards this part of the cliff when we were leaving.”

“Did you never think to look for the way in and try to explore on your own?” queried his father.

Neil pondered the question. “I think we always knew that if they had wanted us in the hill, they would have invited us,” he answered.

The Ranger nodded in relief but, as they moved closer to the rocky outcrop, a growing sense of unease made him watchful. Although he saw nothing, his fears were not unfounded, for high above them, Amgarad watched with baleful eyes. From his rocky vantage point, he had viewed the little group with more than a passing interest for he was fairly sure that the two children were those he had attacked at the well. And when they rounded a jutting cliff and did not reappear on the other side, he sat up and took notice. Slowly he flexed his great wings, launched himself into space and swooped downwards.

It didn’t take him long to discover where they had gone. Walking awkwardly, for he was only comfortable in the air, he strutted and flapped his way among the boulders until he saw a dark opening in the cliff face.

Triumph, mingled with a certain amount of relief, flooded through Amgarad, as his own search for the entrance had been fruitless and he had spent a tortured, sleepless night envisaging
the terrible prospect of failure. Barely able to contain his excitement, he hopped nearer to the slit-like opening that gaped blackly between two broken slabs of stone and peered into the darkness beyond.

It was then that his resolve weakened, for Amgarad was a creature of the air and to venture through black, confining tunnels where his wings would not serve him, was anathema to him. As it was, he took one last look at the rising sun and bravely hopped forward. The men and children were, he knew, not far in front of him and only a few moments passed before he caught a glimpse of torchlight ahead. Thankfully, he took a deep breath and followed the light.

Inside the hill, the Ranger had taken over as leader. He had come armed with ropes and other items of climbing gear but so far they had proved unnecessary as the going was relatively easy. The passage was wide and sloped smoothly and steadily downwards, but its spaciousness soon gave way to smaller, narrower passages.

The Ranger stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” whispered Sir James.

“A flight of stairs,” said the Ranger. Sir James moved up and saw a flight of steps in front of him that curved like a spiral stairway down through the rock. It seemed to go on forever and they were all more than slightly dizzy by the time they reached the last step. The staircase gave onto a large,
high-roofed
chamber in whose walls gaped the black openings of other tunnels.

Sir James glanced around the room. “Well,” he asked, “where do we go from here?”

Wordlessly, the Ranger shone his torch downwards, revealing a pathway of little footprints that led to the right-hand tunnel.

“Let’s go, then,” instructed Sir James.

The new tunnel led them deeper into the heart of the mountain. Gradually its roof became lower and the men passed with no little difficulty beneath a few jutting outcrops of rock. Soon, however,
it came to an end and opened to reveal a deep split in the hill whose sheer walls formed a gorge of such impenetrable blackness that the narrow shafts of torchlight made little impression on its depths. This fearful chasm was spanned by a narrow bridge that looped in a fantastic curve over the void. They had little choice but to cross it.

The Ranger took the coil of rope from his shoulder and, anchoring one end firmly to a jutting rock, he fastened it round each of them. Strung safely together, they crossed the fragile structure on their hands and knees. By the time they had all reached the other side they were totally exhausted and, by common consent, paused to take stock of their surroundings.

“I think we should have something to eat and drink before we go any further,” the Ranger announced, heaving a heavy rucksack from his back.

Clara had the same feeling of dread that she had felt on the hill and looked round fearfully. For someone who was afraid of the dark, it was a very dark place. She could feel the darkness like a blanket ready to smother her in its soft folds. Hastily she turned her eyes to the comforting light of the torches and gratefully bit into a cheese sandwich.

“You okay, Clara?” Neil asked.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

From the far side of the bridge, Amgarad watched hungrily as they ate, but it was only when they set off again and the dancing torchlight disappeared down the tunnel, that he glided over the chasm on silent wings to follow them further. At the entrance to this new tunnel, however, Amgarad paused. His sense of smell was more acute than that of humans and this tunnel spelt danger.

The Ranger pressed ahead, his torch revealing a worn trail of footprints that took them deeper and deeper into the hill. It was not long, however, before he started to become alarmed.

“I don’t like this at all,” he said, flashing his torch on the wall. “Look at the walls! They’ve been scorched by fire — and the
deeper we go, the blacker they get!”

“I’ve heard that Arthur’s Seat is an extinct volcano …” Sir James broke off suddenly and grasped the Ranger’s arm. “Look!” he whispered, “Look! One of the MacArthurs!”

The Ranger shone his torch on a smallish, slight, fair-haired young man whose eyes blinked in the glare of its powerful beam. He rushed towards them.

“Go back! Go back!” he cried. “Thank goodness I found you! It’s dangerous here! Quickly! Back to the bridge!”

Such was the urgency in his voice that they all turned immediately and started back the way they had come. Behind them came a rumbling roar that made their blood curdle, followed by a dreadful wave of heat and smoke that left them gasping and panting.

“Faster! Faster!” screamed the MacArthur.

At last the bridge was reached. Choking and gasping for breath they made to cross but the little creature, its sheepskin jacket black and tattered, pulled them to one side … just in time. As they pressed back against the rocky wall, a burst of flame shot through the tunnel opening; a sparkling, glittering stream of fire that held all the colours of the rainbow, threaded with stars of gold and silver. It was more marvellous than any firework display they had ever seen.

Amgarad paled. The secret of the hill was revealed to him and, as the flames subsided and the roaring died away, he melted silently into the darkness. He had heard and seen enough.

The Ranger switched on his torch with an unsteady hand while Sir James drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. Clara and Neil, however, were staring at the MacArthur. “Hamish!” they said together, “Hamish! What on earth is going on?”

Sir James looked back at the drift of smoke that still wreathed from the mouth of the tunnel. “What,” he demanded chokingly, “was that?”

“That,” answered Hamish, “was our dragon!”

“You have a dragon?” gasped Neil in complete disbelief. “You … you never told us!”

“A dragon?” Sir James almost dropped his torch. “Did … did you say a dragon?”

“I did that! But you must all come with me. It isn’t safe here and besides, the MacArthur himself will want to see you. Come! Follow me!”

Without giving them time to protest, Hamish set off at a brisk trot and led them through a further maze of tunnels until they saw lights ahead and emerged into a cave of cathedral-like dimensions. Lit by blazing torches the cavern was an Aladdin’s Cave stacked with piles of old furniture, strange, iron-framed mirrors, lamps and what looked like hundreds of Persian carpets. These not only layered the floor of the cave but were also stacked in rolls against the walls, their colours giving a glowing richness to the overall bleakness of the cavern.

Most amazing, however, were the occupants of this vast hall, for it was full of milling groups of little people. Some were wrapped in blankets, others wore sheepskin jackets over long tunics and leggings, and many were gathered round a thin, wizened little old man seated on an enormous carved, wooden chair, banked up with cushions. Heavily booted and dressed in a dull red tunic covered by a long fleece coat, he stared imperiously over the crowd, and noticed the new arrivals immediately.

There was a sudden silence as everyone turned to stare and the crowds parted as they were taken straight to the chieftain.

With a sweeping gesture of his arm, their escort bowed low.

“MacArthur,” he announced. “I found these people near the dragon’s tunnel. I got them out just in time!”

The MacArthur looked grimly at the little group and then smiled. “I think I ken you. It’s Sir James, isn’t it? Sir James Erskine?” he queried.

Sir James’s ability to handle delicate social situations seemed to have deserted him as he bowed awkwardly and agreed that he was.

“Aye,” the MacArthur announced. “Aye! You have the look of
your father about you. And your friends?”

“Ranger MacLean from the Park and his children,” Sir James said, making the introductions, “and my foreman at the distillery, Jamie Todd. You will, perhaps, remember his father …?”

“Aye, of course,” the MacArthur smiled. “We are all deeply indebted to him. Now, why don’t you come and sit by me and tell me what brings you here.”

Chairs were hastily placed around the MacArthur’s throne and a servant brought a heavy silver tray bearing a jug of clear water and some tall glasses.

Sir James regarded his glass thoughtfully. “I think, MacArthur,” he said, “that you probably know why we are here. Shall we say our National Drink? And,” and here he held up his glass, “I don’t mean water.”

The MacArthur drew himself up haughtily. “I hope, Sir James, that you are not accusing us of drinking the … er … produce of your distillery. For it’s no’ the case … no’ the case at all. We drink nothing but pure spring water!”

Sir James nodded. “I’m not accusing you of drinking my whisky, but if
you
aren’t drinking it, then who is? Or have twenty thousand gallons of it just vanished into thin air?”

The MacArthur sat up abruptly. “Twenty thousand gallons! Is it as much as that?”

A wave of excited whispering arose from the ranks of the MacArthurs at this disquieting piece of information. When it died down, the MacArthur stroked his chin thoughtfully and gazed speculatively at Sir James.

“Then your father, Sir James, never told you why we rigged up yon wee pipeline?”

“No, he did not. I … actually, I always assumed that you drank the whisky yourselves, but as I can see for myself that you don’t, I’m prepared to accept that there might be another explanation.”

“It so happens …” The MacArthur tailed off as the sound of
a tremendous roar echoed round the cavern, “… that there
is
a very good explanation. In fact, you have just heard it!”

The Ranger broke in, “Do you mean to say that it’s the dragon that’s … that’s …?”

The MacArthur nodded sourly. “Aye!” he gestured angrily. “Uncontrollable! Fire and smoke all over the place, day in, day out until we’re all sick of it.” He stood up and waved his stick. “And do you know whose fault it is?” He paused dramatically and pointed. “His fault! He was the one that found a bottle of whisky on the hill and gave it to Arthur! Come forward Archie and let me introduce you!”

A shamefaced MacArthur moved forward and bowed low.

The MacArthur was fast working himself into a passion. “This miserable specimen is Mad Archie! And mad he is for only a lunatic, a fool, a jackass, a nincompoop, a complete and utter idiot would ever give a dragon whisky!

“I didn’t know it was whisky, MacArthur!” whined the miserable specimen. “I thought it was some kind of tonic. And Arthur was that depressed, I just thought it might cheer him up a bit.”

“Arthur?” questioned Sir James, looking vaguely round.

“Arthur,” retorted the MacArthur, “is our dragon. And a decent, respectable dragon he was too until that idiot gave him whisky!”

“I’m sorry, Sir James,” Archie said. “The thing is that Arthur is no fool. He saw me turning on the tap every night when I went to top him up and …”

“Top him up? You mean … you gave him a nightcap or something?”

The MacArthur laughed scornfully. “A nightcap! Dinna be daft! Dragons don’t
drink
whisky. Any fool knows that!”

Sir James sat up with a pained expression on his face. “Then what
does
he do with it?”

The MacArthur shook his head in disbelief. “Man, will ye no’ just think about it!”

Sir James looked baffled. “I’m sorry to appear so … so dense,” he remarked somewhat indignantly, “but, wuite frankly, I’ve rarely thought of dragons since I was about ten years old.”

“Humph!” The MacArthur wasn’t impressed. “Well, that would account for your not knowing!”

“Not knowing what?” interjected the Ranger quickly, conscious that Sir James was fast losing his temper.

The MacArthur looked cross. “Well, how else do you think dragons breathe fire and smoke … a wee dram of whisky and … wrooooosh!”

There was a stunned silence as Sir James, the Ranger, Jamie Todd and the children assimilated this astounding piece of information.

“You see,” explained the MacArthur in a reasonable voice, “Arthur’s still a young dragon and it’ll be a while yet before he can breathe fire on his own. He’s always been a bit lonely, cooped up in the hill with only us for company, and it was when we found out how much he enjoyed blowing fire and smoke from the bottle that Archie gave him that we started taking small amounts from your father’s distillery, Sir James. Until, that is, Archie got caught and brought your father and Mr Todd into the hill. It was then that I had my great idea and we managed to persuade your father to set up the wee pipeline. To keep Arthur happy.”

Sir James shook his head in disbelief. “The last thing my father would do is set up a pipeline of free whisky just to indulge a dragon in its favourite hobby.”

The MacArthur shifted uncomfortably at the truth of this remark. “Well,” he admitted, “you see, I saw the kind of man your father was, Sir James. A wee bit tight-fisted, like? So I told Arthur that if he acted his part well, the chances were that he would be able to ‘top up’ every night and blow fire and smoke to his heart’s content for the rest of the day.”

“And …?” said Sir James faintly.

The MacArthur again looked uncomfortable. “We … er …
spun your father and Mr Todd a tale about Arthur having woken up after five hundred years, and said we needed the whisky to keep him sedated, otherwise he would break out of the hill and terrorize the city.”

“And
my
father believed
that
?” Sir James’s voice was shrill with incredulity.

The MacArthur grinned reminiscently. “Oh aye! Arthur gave a fine performance … a fine performance indeed. It frightened the wits out of me, I can tell you, and I’ve known Arthur for hundreds of years. He was worn out for days afterwards!”

Sir James burst out laughing. “Well, well, MacArthur,” he chuckled. “I think you must be the only person in Edinburgh who ever got the better of my father in a matter of business.”

“But why,” persisted Jamie Todd, “did you decide to give Arthur thousands of gallons?”

“We didn’t give it to him. Arthur watched Archie turn on the tap every night and decided to try it himself. He’s got an absolute lake of the stuff down there.”

“Aye,” said Archie proudly, “he learned to turn the tap on himself.”

“Then,” said the MacArthur, “
then
he wouldn’t let us near it to turn it off again. By then he was having too much fun seeing how far he could throw the flames and … well, to cut a long story short, he took to fire-raising in earnest. Look at us now! Living with the bits and pieces we could salvage in this cold, dark hall. He’s burnt us out of house and hill, has our Arthur!”

Sir James sighed and shook his head. “Well, if the tap is still turned on at the foot of his lake then I’m ruined. How the devil am I going to explain away twenty thousand gallons of whisky? What on earth am I going to do?”

“Disconnect the pipeline for a start,” advised Jamie Todd. “Then at least it won’t become thirty thousand gallons!”

“That’s no good,” opined the Ranger. “That would still leave twenty thousand gallons for the dragon to use up at his leisure. I’m thinking that it would be better for you to rig up some sort
of pump at your end of the pipeline, Sir James, and pump back as much whisky as you can. You ought to be able to reclaim a tidy amount.”

Sir James leapt to his feet and wrung the Ranger’s hand. “Magnificent!” he cried. “Absolutely magnificent! I’ll have my revenge on that Dougal MacLeod yet.”

“Dougal MacLeod?” queried the MacArthur.

“The Excise man who thinks he’s got me for stealing twenty thousand gallons of my own whisky! Now, don’t worry, my dear sir,” he said, “everything will sort itself out from now on. We’ll rig a pump up right away to get our whisky back. No whisky for the dragon means no more fire and smoke to plague the life out of you. From now on, you’ll have no more trouble from your dragon, I assure you!”