The Last Dragonslayer

William of Anorak

I headed for the local library to try to find something that might tie Dragons and magic together in some sort of Grand Unified Wizidrical Field Theory. I had a strong feeling that the loss of one might mean the loss of the other, and I wasn’t going to sit back and let matters unfold unhindered. I read as much about Dragons as I could find, which wasn’t much. No one had ever done a study, and apart from one blurred photograph of a Dragon in flight taken in 1922, no one had any idea what one looked like. I thumbed through a book of zoology and discovered that they weren’t a protected species; indeed, no one had even bothered to classify them at all. According to naturalists the Dragon belonged to the animal kingdom for certain, almost definitely to the vertebrates, and was as likely as not a reptile. Other than that—nothing. In many ways the dragon was a non-creature. There seemed to be more information on Shridloos, Bworks, Buzonjis and Quarkbeasts, and only the Shridloo had been studied at length.

But from my reading I also learned that I was correct. Since there was a Last Dragon, there had to be a last Dragonslayer; only he or she could mete out punishment as only he or she could pass the marker stones unharmed. The question was: where was the last Dragonslayer? Since I knew he had to be somewhere close to the Dragonlands he administered, it stood to reason he would be either here in the Kingdom of Hereford, or in the neighbouring Duchy of Brecon on the other side of the Dragonlands. I began my search in the telephone directory. There was nothing listed between Dragon Pagoda Chinese takeaway and Dragon tyre services, so I looked under Slayers but had no luck there either. I called directory enquiries, who were of little use, then the police station. Sergeant Pozner was friendly as usual, but explained that most officers were on duty policing the crowds that were getting restless up at the marker stones, and those that were off duty were the ones getting restless at the marker stones. When pressed on the subject of how to contact the resident Dragonslayer if Maltcassion breached the Dragonpact, he told me to go away and knew nothing about Dragonslayers, pacts or even Maltcassion by the sound of it.

I called Mother Zenobia to see whether she had any ideas—and my luck changed.

‘The person with whom you need to speak is William of Anorak,’ she said, ‘who was, at one time, a foundling like yourself. He is a remarkable man of high intellect who has wasted his brain by absorbing millions of facts and figures and never assimilating them into anything useful. He is a walking encyclopedia of facts that you would never need to know, like the train timetables of ten years ago, or the acreage of Norway, or the person who didn’t win the 1923 presidential elections in Mausoleum. He is a fountain of useless facts and figures that bore to death all who come near, but if anyone can answer your questions, it is he.’

William of Anorak was not difficult to find. He was at Hereford’s main railway station on Platform 6, staring at the rolling stock. He was about fifty and dressed in a hooded cloak of a rough material, tied at the waist with baling twine. He was nearly bald and peered out at me through thick pebble spectacles. I noticed that he wore sandals carved from old car tyres and a duffel coat that was so worn and threadbare that only the buttons remained.

I hailed him and he looked up, gave a wan smile and replied to my greeting:

‘The Audio chameleon changes sound to fit in with its surroundings. On a busy street it sounds like a road drill, but in the front room it makes a noise like a ticking clock. Good day!’

‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I said, ‘I have need of your services.’

‘William of Anorak,’ said William of Anorak, offering a grubby hand and adding quickly: ‘The Magna Carta was signed in 1215 at the bottom, just below where it says: “all who agree, sign here”.’

He turned back to a coal truck and started to scribble a number in a dirty notebook held open by an elastic band.

‘I need to know where to find the last Dragonslayer,’ I said following him down the row of coal trucks.

‘I was last asked that question twenty-three years, two months and six hours ago. The only fish that begins and ends with a “K” other than the Killer Shark is the King-sized portion of haddock.’

‘And what was your answer?’

‘The record number of pockets in a single pair of trousers is nine hundred and seventy-two. Only three had zippers, and the combined loose change was enough to buy a goat at 1766 prices. Four hundred moolah, please.’

‘Four hundred?’ I repeated incredulously. My only possession was my Volkswagen Beetle, and it was barely worth a tenth of what he was asking.

‘Four hundred moolah,’ replied William of Anorak firmly, ‘in cash. The secretions of the ultra-rare Desert Shridloo are said to have remarkable properties. The other remarkable thing about a Desert Shridloo is that it doesn’t live in the desert.’

‘Do you have to keep on reeling off useless facts?’

‘Unfortunately so,’ replied William of Anorak, adjusting his glasses, ‘I have over seven million facts in my head and if I don’t repeat them to myself in order I run the risk of forgetting them completely. Milton wrote Samson Agonistes. Would you like to hear it?’

‘No thanks,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Who was it who said: “Never commit anything to memory you can’t look up?”’

‘It was Albert Einstein and I see your point, yet I am as much a victim of my own powers as those who have the misfortune to stay in my company. You have been here over five minutes; that is better than most. Most people prefer carpooling when other people do it, and the average number of pips in a tangerine is 5.368.’

‘I have no money,’ I implored, ‘not even a twenty-moolah note. But to know the answer to my question I will gladly give you everything I possess.’

‘Which is? An anagram of Moonlight is thin gloom, and the average Troll can eat fifteen legs at one sitting.’

‘A 1958 Volkswagen Beetle with an MOT that expires next week, a few books and half a piano.’

William of Anorak looked up and stopped scribbling in his pad.

‘The most favourite boy’s name is James; the least favourite is Gzxkls. How can you have half a piano?’

‘It’s a long story, but basically I’m a musical duet penfriend with another foundling in San Mateo.’

He continued to stare at me.

‘A red setter is so stupid even the other dogs notice, and cats aren’t really friendly, they’re just cosying up to the dominant life-form as a hedge against extinction. You’re a foundling? From where?’

‘The Lobsterhood.’

A smile crossed his grubby unshaven features.

‘You’re that Jennifer Strange? The one at Kazam with the Quarkbeast?’

I nodded and pointed at the Quarkbeast, who was sitting in the car. He had once idly chewed his way through a locomotive’s drive wheel, and hadn’t been allowed on railway property since.

‘In the first photograph ever taken,’ said William, staring at me thoughtfully, ‘someone blinked, and they had to begin again from scratch. It set the industry back two decades, and the problem has still not been properly rectified. You were left in that Beetle when a foundling, yet you would give it to me?’

‘I would.’

‘Then I will tell you the answer to your question for free. You will find Brian Spalding, worshipful Dragonslayer, appointed by the Mighty Shandar himself and holder of the sacred sword Exhorbitus—’

‘Yes, yes?’

‘Probably at the Duck and Ferret in Wimpole Street.’

I thanked him profusely and shook his hand so hard I could hear his teeth rattle.

‘There’s one other thing!’

He beckoned me to lean closer. I did so and he whispered:

‘The largest deposit of natural marzipan ever discovered is a two-metre-thick seam lying beneath Cumbria. The so-called “Carlisle Drift” is worth a potential 1.8 trillion moolah, and may provide light and heat for two million homes when it comes on stream in 2002. Not a lot of people know that. Good luck, Miss Strange, and may you always walk in the shadow of the Lobster.’