DREAMS OF DEMONS, DRAGONS, VAMPIRES AND ELVES

ERIC THE VAMPIRE
Copyright 1995, S Hartwell
(I had this dream 22^nd August 1995, which was before I had ever heard of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or even Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles. I woke up from the dream with two incredible stabbing pains in my wrist as though something had bitten me. Honestly, in the dream, his name was Eric and this describes exactly what I saw, did and felt in the dream.)

"I'd like to introduce you to my friend Eric," I told the three women I worked with.

Normally any single male straying into their domain caused excitement, but Eric was visibly different. Their jaws dropped as they took in his formal appearance - black suit with waistcoat over a white shirt, a short black cape to match the suit and a black top hat. Eccentric attire for today, admittedly, though there are odder sights at fashion shows. The pallor of his skin suggested that he shunned sunlight and contrasted with his dark hair and the dark four-o'clock shadow of just emerging stubble. He viewed my friends with enigmatic dark grey eyes; eyes which bore a haunted look as well as a hint of amusement at my friends' reaction. It was when he smiled that he caused a true reaction and mocking humour appeared in his compelling gaze.

My friends looked horrified. Eric's smile revealed the extended canine teeth of a born predator.

"He's a vampire!" one exclaimed.

"So?" I asked, "He's still a person."

I could tell by the disbelief on their faces that they considered me suicidal, or at the very least, quite mad.

A vampire, you see, is driven by his compelling need for fresh blood. There are plenty of pernicious tales about vampires; how they drain their victims to the point of death and condemn their unfortunate prey to become vampires too; how vampires are driven by malice and evil. Not true, he had told me. Like any other creature a vampire needs food. Is the lion evil because it kills in order to survive? Unlike the lion he did not need to kill in order to eat, nor would his victims become vampires themselves. Agreed, his diet could cause problems, after all he could hardly nip into a supermarket and buy a couple of pints of "A Negative" or order a few extra pints from his local blood transfusion centre. But that did not mean he needed to go on a wholesale killing spree. All he needed were regular donors who could spare a fresh pint at a time; a rather unorthodox form of blood donation.

What was true was that he shunned sunlight, it raised blisters on his skin. Silver also caused him discomfort, but was not actually deadly. Those tales at least were true; vampires are allergic to sunlight and silver. But he could handle crucifixes with impunity (as can many evil mortals!), cross running water without even a queasy turn and though he did not particularly like the smell of garlic (again, many mortals don't like garlic) it was hardly the vampire-deterrent it was claimed to be. You should never discriminate against someone just because their family have had a bad press - each is an individual to be judged on his or her own merits and I said so.

"What's the problem?" I asked, "You shouldn't judge someone by the myths you've heard. Individuals should be judged on their own merits."

"Don't trust him," scolded one of the girls, "Don't trust him."

"Whyever not? Look, there's no reason not to trust him," I replied, willing to prove the point.

I offered my right wrist to Eric, glancing at his face but avoiding eye contact. He smiled wryly. A vampire's gaze is compelling, mesmerising. Once locked in that gaze you can't escape unless released. You're caught like a fly in amber and the more you struggle, the more trapped you become until you lose all sense of free will. Their mesmerism is instinctive and staring into the eyes of an unsated vampire can be a terrifying experience even if he intends to take no more than a pint. However much you trust him, you are still the rabbit transfixed by the snake, horribly aware of what he is capable of doing and powerless to react.

"Trust me," he said as he took my right hand.

He grasped my fingers in his pale left hand to hold my wrist steady in case I got cold feet, and lifted it to his fanged mouth. He lowered his mouth to my hand and teeth scraped against the heel of my hand before the sharp canines scratched my wrist. I looked away, over his shoulder, unable to watch what was happening. I had thought it would be painless, like an injection or giving blood to the transfusion service, but the sharp teeth scratched and pressed painfully against the skin of my wrist before the skin broke and they sliced into my veins. Blood seared against the inside of my veins as it was sucked forcibly out of the veins at greater than natural speed.

Fear overcame bravado and I felt faint, even though I could only have lost a cupful of blood by that time. My legs trembled and only the vampire's free hand round my waist held me upright. I thought I was going to faint. I could see my friends' faces as they watched me offer my blood, they looked aghast, but were too horrified to move. The initial fearful faintness cleared and I began to feel truly light-headed. How much had he taken? A pint? More? How much would he take? How much could he safely take?

"No more, please," I whispered. I was being propped up now, too faint to stand unaided. Whether he heard me or not I didn't know as the searing flow of blood continued and my wrist began to throb around those sharp canines.

After an age he slowly, almost delicately, pulled his fangs from my flesh. Two clean slits in the wrist seeped blood, but it was already beginning to clot. The aftermath of the scratching, searing pain was an ache that was merely uncomfortable and I felt less faint now that I was no longer losing blood. There was no blood dribbling from his fangs as in the movies. Those canines are tubular and efficient, like sharpened straws or twin syringe needles.

"Enough?" I asked, my voice little more than a whisper.

"It is never enough," was the reply, "I will need more later."

His grey gaze trapped me then, I think it was deliberate. My sanity tumbled into the soulless depths, mesmerised by the gaze of the vampire. Yes I knew that he would take only a little at a time from me, and from others. As for the rest, who would miss a down-and-out, who would know if he reached the dying victim of an accident long before the emergency services arrived? I would provide a respectable front. Look, I would say, there's nothing untrustworthy about a vampire, he takes just enough to live on. Like the cattle of that oft-cited African tribe I would get used to having blood taken regularly as I demonstrated to others that I trusted my vampire friend. Mesmerised, I would agree to this form of parasitism, or perhaps it was a weird type of symbiosis for his compelling gaze held undreamed of promises - promises of immortality and power should I finally succumb to the ultimate sharing of blood and mind.

My friends must have thought I was a hopeless case, gazing into the eyes of a vampire, but like that fly in amber I was trapped and I would willingly offer all the blood in my body if he asked for it.

"I think I can trust him," I said, "After all, he could easily have killed me, couldn't he?"

I have felt the kiss of the vampire and lived.

"Welcome," said young man, letting me into the apartment, "You're just in time, we're just about to eat."

He hovered in the dim hallway, closing the door behind me. The lighting in the apartment was subdued, but he was a deeper shadow, silhouetted against the poor illumination.

"Please, go through," he said courteously, ushering me towards the living room, "May I take you coat?"

He helped me shrug out of my coat and I felt his face disconcertingly near to my right ear as though sniffing me. I could hear noises from the bedroom at the end of the hallway and the door was cracked open just wide enough for me to two women and a man around what looked like a slaughterhouse carcass. They were ripping raw flesh from it and shoving great gobbets of dripping meat into their mouths. I could smell the tang of fresh meat, so fresh that it had still been living when they had started to devour it.

"May I get you a drink? Some bulls blood maybe?" he asked as he followed me into the living room. He gestured at a bottle of the dark red Spanish wine on the side table.

"Perhaps a Bloody Mary," I asked; a twist of wry humour in the circumstances.

As he busied himself mixing the drink, I had time to study him. A hint perhaps of a European accent, but barely discernible unless you were listening out for it. It was that vague hint which remained if a person had learnt English late in childhood.

I mentally assessed him against the many descriptions which were in circulation. He was moderately tall, five eight or five ten perhaps and slender rather than gaunt. Too many portrayals showed a tall, gaunt figure looming over others. High cheekbones, but the face was not hollow or cadaverous. Piercing dark blue eyes rather than the popular deep-socketed images where the eyes looked black.

"Your drink," he said, offering my the Bloody Mary, seemingly unaware of the scrutiny.

Perhaps he was aware that I was studying him, many impressionable young women must have studied those handsome features in the past. I shivered.

"Shall I reduce the air-conditioning?" he asked, "Myself, I find it unseasonably hot."

"No, no," I said, baring my teeth in a little laugh, "It is hot outside, it just takes a few moments to get used an air-conditioned room after the sticky heat."

In truth the room was cool enough to feel like a tomb and the air-conditioning gave it a damp masonry smell akin to a crypt. He sprawled elegantly in a deep leather chair, his long elegant fingers playing with the stem of his wine glass. With his other hand he picked up a remote control and classical music began to play softly - Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. I drank cautiously and continued my assessment of him over the rim of my glass. Fugue - a state of forgetfulness - I thought.

His hair was mid to dark brown, fine textured and brushed his shirt collar - not at all the short dark slicked back black hair. His face was not the pallid white of popular imagination, but pale as though a suntan had faded not so long ago. Dark trousers, open-collared deep red shirt and black waistcoat. No tie or bow tie. He looked more like an aspiring thirty something city lawyer than, well than what he was supposed to be. He was, however, quite dangerous.

We made small talk for a while. The coolness of the apartment kept the stink of fresh dead flesh more or less at bay and those in the other room were silent. My host seemed unaware that I had seen the gory feast. I have a rather acute sense of smell and could still perceive the iron tang of spilt haemoglobin over the fragrance of jasmine and incense sticks gently smouldering in the corner of the room. The incense added to the crypt-like atmosphere.

"To business?" I asked, draining my glass, "You know my fees. "

"Aaah, to business. How can did an elegant, intelligent woman like yourself enter such a sordid trade?"

"Please don't confuse my trade with that of the common whore. I am trained in many techniques to satisfy the more discerning customer - hence my price."

"You are right, for sex I could hire any street-walker. I desire the illusion of a seduction, not just physical sensation. I desire more than … " he waved his hand dismissively "… more than simply fucking like animals. I wish to make love to a beautiful woman, but with no strings attached."

He stood, offering me his hand. I took it and stood also. He curved one arm around my back, pulling me closer to him. He smelt of old fashioned male cologne - the heaviness of rose attar, the spiciness of sandalwood and the cleanness of cedar. All scents of the tomb or monastery. All disguising the curious lack of spicy male pheromones.

Standing close up against him, I nuzzled his neck. He smelt rich with anticipation, a meaty richness. I peeled back my upper lip, running my tongue over my own elongated canine teeth which I had kept safely retracted until now. I remembered the group of people tearing apart their victim's carcass in the other bedroom. Delicately I licked his neck as though teasing him, then I sank my own fangs into his vein before he even realised what was happening.

I went down with him when he stumbled, still drinking his rich blood. How many naive young women had Dracul lured to his nest to sate his appetite? Did Dracul think we would overlook his activities in our city? I would deal with his feasting minions later - gorged with blood and flesh, dulled by the almost orgasmic release of the kill and the blood-feast, they would be slow and easy prey.

For I am the elder vampire who feeds on vampires. They call me Bloody Mary.

I FADE AWAY
2009, Sarah Hartwell

This dream happened the morning of Dream 17th November 2009.

A piano recital in the home was an anachronism in those days. It must have been common enough in the days before radio or TV or the other entertainment systems, but now it's just a costume party. Most of us sat in dining chairs around the edge of the room while the baby grand piano had the centre of the room. No doubt the other furniture had been cleared away somewhere. The pianist was a chunky redhead in blue dress, but it was the singer who caught my attention. He was medium height and had dressed the part in a black suit over a white shirt with an old fashioned "stand-up" collar and a black bow tie. It was his face that attracted my attention - the vivid blue eyes and raven-black hair. Surely hair so black should have accompanied a swarthier complexion or shown signs of being dyed! I sensed this was really his show and the pianist, who seemed to be a relative, was his accompaniment. Something about him put me on edge even before he was introduced as Watt.

Not long into the recital (which was in itself not at all bad, although the singer was more accomplished than the pianist) I found the atmosphere in the room unbearable. It was as though everyone were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. I slipped out of the door into the hallway and continued watching from there. The singer's vivid blue eyes caught and held mine. I heard a voice in my head, my name being whispered and I felt my flesh crawl. I made some excuse and left, as politely as was possible, at once. It was not so easy to forget about Mr Watt though and what I learnt about him shaped my life.

Looking around me more than a decade later I see the bright lights of amusement arcades and brightly lit signs of a shopping centre. It's a coastal resort, a mix of entertainment and shopping, and it could be anywhere on the south coast. I shouldered my pack and kept walking, scanning the fluorescent-lit windows of luxury goods stores and the cosier windows of tea rooms. At this time of year, when shopping was the main attraction, I looked out of place among the smartly dressed visitors. I was a shortish, fairish, scrawny-looking middle-aged women in cargo-pants and jacket with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder though no-one gave me a second glance as I dogded among groups of people and along the pedestrianise streets. Finally I see what I've been looking for.

The woman was in her 40s, a little plump as they all had been. He hovered by her attentively, his hair as black as ever with no signs of grey and his eyes still a piercing blue. They spoke and separated, no doubt to meet up later. She had no way to know she was courting danger. I moved through the clot of shoppers that had hidden me from him and approached the plump woman. Closer up she looked less affluent and a little out of place in the shopping area; middle-aged, middle class and anonymous. She didn't see me at first, of course, though she felt someone pressing against her arm. She didn't hear me either, though she no doubt felt a stray breeze. That was always the first problem - to be noticed.

I exerted enough pressure on her arm to make her turn towards the tea room window. Then she saw me, or rather saw my reflection. Only now that she was looking FOR me could she see me next to her. I've gone so long unnoticed that it's difficult to be noticed now, though mirrors still see me. At least she didn't scream.

"Your companion," I began, "Mr Watt ..."

She smiled. It was the strange, slightly besotted smile I'd seen on the other women he chose.

"...he's dangerous, you need to protect yourself."

But she didn't listen, didn't want to know. I vanished from her perception as soon as she turned away from the window. Some I save, but each time I fail, I fade a little more and one day even the mirrors won't see me. Perhaps it is time to face him directly. I am, after all, a bounty-hunter.

Soon after, I watched Watt and his chosen leave the well-lit streets and move into a quiet district, lit only by pale streetlights. He hurried her along and she, seemingly unaware of the dangers of poorly lit unfamiliar streets, went eagerly. I followed at a distance, my weapon taken from its duffel bag and assembled, now slung on my shoulder. Here, in the twilight, not even windows noticed me. They moved faster than I anticipated and I dared not approach more closely, not yet. Then, to my annoyance, I lost them altogether among tall garden fences. I felt myself fade a little more.

Now with no visible quarry, I continued walking along the back-alley between rows of gardens, overhadowed by larch lap fencing or conifers that screened the gardens. When I heard his footsteps behind me I turned around. Even in the dim streetlights his blue eyes pierced me, seeing me without the need for mirrors. He looked solid, glutted. The woman he'd absorbed had been plump. Moreover he looked no older than when I'd first seen him. I'd always avoided a direct confrontation, but now I heard that silky voice in my head speaking my name: he'd waited so long, hadn't I known we were the same? That knowledge had only come later as I'd begun to fade. The knowledge that now came to me, bright and clear, was that only one, or neither, of us would emerge from that alleyway.

LOVING THE CENTAUR
Copyright 1995, S Hartwell
(A peculiarly erotic dream [30 June 1995] with no obvious inspiration, about a sexual liaison with a mythical creature. This is purely a description of the dream with no effort to make it into a story.)

I didn't really know anyone at the party and I suppose I was a bit of a wallflower, standing near the table with my glass of Perrier and no-one to talk to. That was when the centaur introduced himself. Set onto a chestnut horse's body was the body of a brown-haired male, looking as human as any man I had ever met, never mind that he was only "human" from navel upwards and his almost seven foot height towered over my five foot five inches. Within minutes I was chatting to him, the other occupants of the room forgotten.

I have to admit that his human part was certainly desirable: chestnut brown wavy hair swept back from his beardless face. Hair grew along his spine from his neck to where it met horse's withers where it fell over the equine shoulders like a mane. But it was his character that attracted me rather than his muscular body - after all who expected to fall for a man who sported a four-legged, hoofed equine body and a ponytail that grew from haunches rather than scalp? I wondered whether he liked human women and then admonished myself for such an unseemly or perverted thought.

"Look, why don't you join me upstairs?" he eventually asked, his hazel-brown eyes kind in his sculpted face, "I live in one of the flats above."

There was a hint of something more than friendship, but my own attraction overcame the daunting prospect of being alone with the gorgeous centaur. Many women fantasised about spending the night with a member of a male strip troupe; I had just fallen for a male centaur and didn't even know whether such a relationship could be consummated!

"Okay," I agreed and took his proffered hand.

He clopped into the hallway, hoofsteps muffled by the carpet. His grip was firm, but gentle though that hand could easily have crushed the bones of most weightlifters' hands. He was strength and restraint personified.

"Hang on," I panted, laughing as I ran up the stairs with him, "I can't gallop as fast as you!" and we fell laughing through the door of his flat and into the sitting room.

Swept into an embrace by this incredible being, I took little notice of my surroundings except that it was furnished with sofa and chairs of human proportions. For his human friends, I decided, since he could just as easily settle down horse-like on the floor. He let me go and shook his human body like a horse shakes its neck. Chestnut hair floated and resettled along his backbone and withers and his face and eyes asked the question I could not refuse.

"But how?" I asked, envisioning his huge stallion's hindquarters and wondering how an ordinary woman could possible couple with that. Catherine the Great I am not!

"You've a thing or two to learn about centaurs," he laughed, "We come fully equipped" and I felt very human genitalia pressing against me, "Only we keep it all hidden away in polite company."

Since centaurs have no need of clothes, except as personal adornment or harness for carrying things, I wondered how he could have hidden anything in that glossy coat. I then realised that the human genitalia, proportionally larger than that of human men, could retract into an invisible pouch between what were the horse's chest muscles and what would have been a human groin in an ordinary man.

I was intoxicated with his presence. Whether overcome by curiosity, lust or powerful pheromones I could not say, but I allowed myself to be led into his bedroom. Again it was most humanlike with king-size bed, wardrobes, chest of drawers and sheepskin rugs on the floor, though the bed was built more sturdily than most king-size beds (not that I've done a comprehensive survey of such things).

His flesh was hot against mine, hotter than any man I've ever known, even in the heat of lust. His hands gently traced lines along my flesh and I ran my fingers through his hair, along his mane and over that glossy chestnut coat with its musky equine scent.

"I need to warn you that most women find the first time with a centaur painful and even bleed a little. I want you, but if you don't want to, if you are frightened - I will understand," he breathed. "But afterwards," he said, stamping one hind hoof and swishing his full tail, now held high in excitement, "you may find human men disappointing."

In answer, I pulled him closer, delighting in his muscular embrace, the texture of his skin and the smell of him.

"I will be gentle," he promised and we both gave in to mutual desire.

He was so hot, like liquid fire and I understood what he meant. It burned and despite my readiness and his gentleness, it tore at me and I was glad he had thought to warn me. What he had said was true, there was no way an ordinary man could compare to that experience - part ecstasy, part pain, part immolation. And afterwards he was so thoughtful and gentle. I didn't care about the obvious differences between us, in fact I no longer saw him as any different from a human lover, I knew only that I was hopelessly in love with a centaur.

A DREAM OF ELVES
Copyright 1994, S Hartwell

I was walking through the London streets on my way to one of London's forgotten cemeteries - an oasis of green in a busy city. Like most people who worked in the city I had become immune to the seamier side of life - tramps, prostitutes, winos, stoned kids, litter etc - and saw only the bright lights and affluent bars, stores and busy offices. Like most who worked in the city I mentally blanked out the human litter from my mind as I walked through the streets.

There are many cemeteries in the City, they are a haven for urban wildlife and a refuge of workers who want to eat their lunch in these inner city oases. I went through the gap in the railings … and stopped.

I should have been in a small square of green with two or three gravestones still standing and the rest lying buried by straggling plants. There should have been a black-painted railing fence along one side, a low grey stone wall along another and two sides with no boundary except a pavement. There should have been a couple of straggly elder trees and a couple of bushes in the corners or against the still upright grave markers.

I was not where I expected to be. I was standing in the leafy fringes of a sunlit wood. Tall oaks and elms towered over me and golden sunlight dappled the grassy and mossy floor. I heard the sound of splashing water and voices which sounded like chiming bells. I looked around behind me and saw a blurred image of black railings and fields beyond. Wherever I was I had stepped out of the city so I decided to check out the voices. Maybe they could tell me where this place was.

I followed a trail into the wood. I felt quite safe here, it was sunny and welcoming. In a clearing was a pool of water which reflected the bright blue of the sky. Three young men were sitting chest deep in the pool, laughing. Their laughter was like the chime and tinkle of bells. When they saw me they fell silent and I felt out of place - a clumsy stranger in a world of beauty. Then they gestured for me to join them in the water.

Oddly I felt no shyness. Their own clothes were lying on the grass beside the pool so I stripped to the skin and stepped into the water. It was cool and refreshing. The three men had curious features - all points and angles with pointed ears, large slanted eyes, prominent cheekbones and tapered faces. Their hair was silver, gold and chestnut. They began laughing and splashing when I sat down on rocks at the bottom of the pool.

"I am Sylverthein," said one, the oldest, pronouncing the name 'Silvair-thayin'.

"Devthein," said the second ('Dev-thayin') nodding in my direction.

"Evorial," said the third ('Ay-vorial'), the youngest, also with a nod.

"This is the pool of truth and seeing," Devthein said.

"It changes you," Sylverthein added, "It allows you to see what is hidden and be hidden from those you see."

"You will understand soon," Evorial said.

After further cryptic conversation, the three elves - for that was what they were - got out of the pool and dressed. I did the same, strangely not shy in front of them. They led me back along the trail the way I had come. Before us was the blurred railing fence and the fields beyond. Sylverthein ducked through a gap in the railings, followed by his brother Devthein. Evorial gestured for me to go next and that I must clasp Devthein's hand.

Beyond was London. It was a city of grime and chaos. Tramps sat in doorways begging for change or drinking themselves into stupor to escape from reality. A refugee woman with two screaming infants pleaded for money "no benefits, no benefits" she said in foreign accents. The street was littered with torn cardboard, old newspaper, junkies' needles, used condoms and all manner of garbage. It was filthy and I felt the filth seeping into my skin. This was the city I never saw, the city which was here all the time but which slowly becomes invisible to those who work in London. The city of sights we learn to ignore and block out, pretending it doesn't exist. It all seemed a little unreal as though none of the vagrants or beggars, junkies or underage prostitutes saw me. They looked through me. The elves led me through the sights.

"It allows you to see what is hidden and be hidden from those you see," Sylverthein had said.

"We come here to watch you," said Devthein, gesturing at the flotsam and jetsam of humankind, the unwashed and the unwanted, the forgotten and the lost.

"We do not understand why you choose to live this way," Evorial said, "It confuses us. As a race, you confuse us." He tilted his head, evidently perplexed by the squalor in which humans chose to live or work.

I was horrified. I had never properly seen the poverty and squalor.

Then there was a buzzing and I looked around to find the three elves had gone. A tramp approached me, can of lager in one hand and begging with the other. I could still see what was hidden, but was no longer hidden myself.

Seeing what is hidden brings madness too. The horror grates like vinegar on scoured skin. I saw other things which are hidden from men - the giggling faerie folk who play childish tricks on people by snatching and hiding small objects; strange creatures which move unseen among us and whose looks would cause horror. Seeing what is hidden brings madness. Climbing railings in an attempt to get back into the elven world brings a diagnosis of mental illness. Shouting at the creatures no-one else can see brings medication and locked rooms and softly spoken men in white coats.

The dream ended with me breaking free of two medics escorting me through a hospital corridor from one room to another. I ran out of the nearest exit, into the hospital grounds. I ran across the wide green field surrounding the mental hospital towards the railings on the other side. There was a small copse beyond the railings. With the kindly medics calling for me to return, I climbed the railings and crossed into …

Not a small copse, nor a sunlit wood, but a dark and forbidden forest thick with the smell of rot and decay and a world in which men hid behind shuttered windows from the primeval horror which stalked this world. Behind me, the railings had gone and I could not get back into the safety of the mental hospital.

I would find worlds layered upon worlds, on one side of the scale were worlds gradually more golden, in the other direction were worlds each more ghastly than the last. One pivot point of the scale the world in which we humans live. Never would I again find Sylverthein, Devthein or Evorial; they would remain a tantalising memory and that memory was a pathway to madness.

ALAIN AND THE IVORY DRAGON
Copyright 1989, Sarah Hartwell

Alain shifted himself into a more comfortable position against the rustlng scales, burrowing deeper under the leathery wing into the warmth of the dragon’s body. Beneath his right ear, a massive heart pounded steadily, lulling him back to sleep. Almost, he dozed off. Then, realising what he was doing he sat up and gingerly tried to extricate himself from the confinement of the creature’s wing without waking it. It did not work and, with a snort and a belch of acrid smoke, the vast creature turned its awesome gaze upon the small boy.

Alain thought he would die of fright when the huge dark eyes stared into his as though they could peer into the boy’s very soul. The head was bigger than his whole body and the dragon could have snatched him into its giant maw as easily as a dog eating a sausage. The scales of its face were a dull yellow colour, like ancient ivory or antique parchment. With a snakelike tongue, the beast licked the tips of its pointed nostrils like a human wetting his lips before speaking. Alain was certain it had woken up hungry and hugged his knees tightly; waiting for the dread deed to occur.

"Good morning, Alain," the ivory-coloured dragon said gently, as gently as a dragon at at least the size of a serf’s cottage could manage, "I trust you have slept well?"

"Y-yes, thankyou," Alain replied, adding a "Mylord" for good measure. Did dragons prefer their breakfast to be well rested before it got eaten?

The dragon laughed and curved its long neck so that it could gaze full upon the small human child trembling beneath its parchment coloured wing.

"Are you cold, Alain?" it asked in what seemed, to Alain, to be very genial tones.

"N-no, I’m fine - honestly!" Alain told the great beast, and huddled closer against the ivory coloured scaled hide, hoping that the dragon would think him too small and insignificant to serve as breakfast. Maybe he should have said yes and hoped it didn’t like cold breakfast. He closed his eyes and braced himself, imagining the huge red mouth gaping open to reveal long sparklingly white fangs. Nothing happened and after a long while he dared to open his eyes again to see the watchful dragon still gazing at him.

"Afraid, perhaps?" pressed the dragon.

Alain swallowed and did not answer. He wanted badly to cry. The dragon lifted its huge head and peered at the corridor which led to a cave in the hillside, a cave where boys such as Alain played at soldiers. From the outside the boys would not have seen past the dragon—made illusion into the tunnel to its lair. A glimmer of early daylight filtered into the cave across the dragons snout. Pressed against its ribs, Alain could feel the warmth of its body seeping through his nightshirt and britches. But dragons are supposed to be cold-blooded! he thought and then wondered if perhaps his parents had meant something else altogether by that. He really was going to have to move soon, his legs were getting cramp from the way he was sitting and he wondered how he had managed to fall asleep in the middle of a dragon’s lair.

His huge companion breathed in great, slow breaths as though asleep, but Alain knew it was just waiting for him to move so it could pounce — just like a cat with a mouse. He moved, just a little bit, stretching out his legs so that he was leaning back against the rustling, scaly, warm hide. The ivory dragon turned to observe him again, its huge eyes black and unreadable in the dim light of its lair; its breath warm and faintly sooty smelling. If it was going to eat him, Alain wished it would get it over and done with; it couldn’t hurt anymore than all this waiting around and being scared.

Finally the waiting got too much for him. "A-are you going to eat me Mr Dragon? Because if you are can you do it soon then I won’t have to sit and think about being dead anymore," he finally asked in a quavering voice.

The dragon snorted thoughtfully and blinked slowly. Its vast head was adorned with great yellow horns longer than Alain was tall. A flake of yellow scale peeled from behind one eye and the creature delicately scratched at it with a mighty claw until the old scale came loose and fell away.

"Why should I want to eat you after saving you from the raiders?" it asked. Its breath was a warm blast but not hot enough to so much as singe the boy’s eyebrows.

Alain thought on this for a while and tried to remember what had happened the night before. He remembered armed men on horses riding into the village and his father and the other men of the village taking up what weapons they could find - swords and pitchforks mainly. His mother and the younger women had hustled the children away from the fighting towards the woods where they could hide, but the attackers had cut her down with a sword. Some of the children and the prettiest women had been carried off, to be slaves Alain guessed, others had merely been stabbed and left behind. He had fallen over early on and played dead; luckily none of the riders had checked too closely to see whether they had killed everyone not worth carrying off. The village men had fought bravely and killed nearly half of the raiders before being overcome and the field had been littered with dead men and horses. The raiders had simply knifed any of their fellows too injured to ride back with them before carrying off the screaming women and crying children. They had left him alone, cold and frightened in the night, surrounded by the bodies of his mother and his playmates.

Then the dark shadow had passed over the battlefield like a huge vulture. It had descended on the slain like a magpie on carrion and had swallowed the horses in two bites. After the horses had gone it started on the villagers and finally the armoured raiders; like a boy leaving his least favourite thing on his plate until last in the hope that he would be full up before he got round to eating it. When it got to the edge of the woods it had found found Alain, but instead of swallowing him whole it had picked him up in its vast maw and carried him off to its lair. The boy had felt like a rabbit in a dog’s mouth. He remembered being carried through the short passage from cave to lair, -but that was as far as his memories went; he had at some point passed out from exhaustion and fear. He supposed the dragon had wanted to take something back in case it felt like having a snack during the night.

Now it seemed as though the dragon didn’t really want to eat him after all. But what did it want? Was he going to be its servant or a prisoner in its lair for the rest of his life, never seeing more than the glimmer of daylight that filtered through the tunnel into this cave? He felt more frightened than if it had simply wanted to eat him.

"Well young Alain," rumbled the dragon in a non-threatening voice and a puff of white smoke, "Have you worked out that I’m not about to eat you?"

"Er - I suppose so. But if you aren’t going to eat me, why have you brought me back with you?"

"So that you wouldn’t die of cold of course" snorted the dragon, "You’d hardly make it through the night without freezing stiff and wishing the raiders had knifed you in first place." It snorted as if the point had too obvious to bother with. "Would you mind awfully if you stood up for a while, I tried not to move about in case I woke you up, but I’m getting awfully stiff."

Alain giggled, it had sounded like his peevish old uncle complaining about the rheumatism. He obliged, but stopped giggling when he realised the dragon had probably eaten his uncle.

"My thanks ... ummm ... you can sit down again if you want. There’s a band of king’s men on their way, but they won’t be here for a while so you might as well rest. They’ll want to know what happened at your village and I’d rather you didn’t tell them about me."

"Why not?"

"We dragons are not exactly popular with mankind, the dwarves aren’t so bad - but they will keep borrowing one’s silver, and the elves tend to live and let live. But men! Can’t leave anything alone. Kill this, kill that - it’s a wonder you haven’t wiped yourselves out yet. Look at last night - prime example." It subsided into disgusted snorting.

"But don’t dragons attack men?" Alain asked, hoping he would not offend the great beast.

"Of course not! Have I attacked you yet? For a start you men insist on wearing metal, which gives us indigestion, and even without it you don’t taste anywhere near as good as cattle." The dragon made a face which was as near as it could get to the grimace Alain himself made when he was told to eat his cabbage.

"Er, you did eat rather a lot of men last night ..

"Well of course I did. So would you if you hadn’t eaten in three months," it retorted. " Have you heard of men eating rats?"

"Like when they can’t find anything else to eat?" asked Alain, who had heard the bards tell stories of sieges where rats had been the only edible thing left in the castle. Since the bards told stories likely to earn them a free meal and a bed for the night they tended to tell stories which were highly popular. Hence Alain had heard the Lay of the Siege of Gadelaine Castle more times than he cared to count. Since his counting got as far as eight and no further he had already lost count of the number of times he had listened to tales of men eating dogs, cats, mice, rats and finally the cook before the siege broke.

"Exactly."

"You mean, you can’t get anything else? Oh poor Mr Dragon," he buried his head into the dragon’s neck scales and began to sob in sympathy.

Somewhat embarrassed at the outburst of emotion, the dragon shook itself and loose ivory coloured scales fluttered about like pale butterflies revealing bright new scales underneath.

"Come on, Alain, you don’t want the king’s men to find you crying do you? How about pretending to be a soldier?"

Alain snuffled and mopped at his face with the tail of his nightshirt. here he was, talking with a fierce dragon and he wasn’t being very brave. He felt somewhat better for having cried and since the dragon was not going to eat him after all he found it easier to be brave. Suddenly he was Sir Guerold riddling with the red dragon of Kervith before he killed it. Alain completely missed the disgusted look that passed across the dragon’s face. As for the dragon, it realised that Alain was little more than a hatchling and could be excused such thoughts.

"If I went raiding your field every night, like dragonkind used to do, men would come hunting for me. Nowadays we look for stray livestock or wait for you to have a battle and eat the bodies when you’ve ridden off. Not exactly what I’ve been used to, but times change I suppose."

"Oh," was all that Alain could say.

"Men ought to be grateful. If we didn’t do it, the bodies would attract things from miles around and stink to glory too. In the old days the lords used to set aside cattle and the worn out horses for us, but there weren’t so many men to feed then." The great ivory dragon sighed and a small blue flame danced on one nostril. "We used to fly in the daytime in those days; the people would crowd out of their houses to watch us."

Alain was enthralled, he could imagine the dragons swooping over the land like huge multicoloured darts, banking and diving to the cheers and gasps of their audience. It seemed very unfair and sad to his young mind that all the dragons were holed up in dark caves and could only fly at night - he would love to watch the mighty creatures, the lords of the air, as they flew.

"The men are getting quite near now, Alain. I think it would be a good idea if you went and sat in one of the caves to watch for them."

"How can you tell where they are?" Alain whispered in reverent tones.

"I can hear them miles off." It was not strictly true, what the ivory dragon could hear was their thoughts as they rode. The men, true to their kind, were thinking of wenches, drinking, gambling, getting paid and their duty to the king - in that order. The horses were half-asleep thinking of good grass, oats, the stupidity of men who go looking for dragons and the uncomfortable weights on their backs - in a fairly random order.

"If you sit in the cave you used to play in," the dragon waited for the fact that he had watched them playing to sink in, "You can run down to meet them. Tell them there was a big fight and you hid out in the cave. If they ask what happened to most of the bodies tell them you were hiding and didn’t see what happened. It would never do if they came trooping in here with their swords and spears; I’m so full I wouldn’t be able to fight back."

"No," Alain said thoughtfully, "That wouldn’t really be fair."

The dragon began to scuffle around in the cave, rooting through heaps of what looked to be old junk beneath veils of dusty cobwebs. Alain saw the odd glint of bright metal and realised that it was the dragon’s hoard. Coins, fabulous armour, jeweled weapons and gem—studded jewellery was muddled in with raw ingots and bits of metal that had been half-molten by a dragon’s fiery blast. He recognised diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, topazes and opals as glittering jewels he had no name for. As the dragon searched for some half—buried item it cleared away the dust which concealed fine metalwork, dusky gold, shimmering silver, dented bronze, ruddy copper and the silver-fire of mithril. Finally the great creature sat back on its haunches holding a tiny silvery ring between two of its powerful claws. Glints of light caught jeweled studs set in the ring.

"Here," it said, turning to Alain, "Hide this in your britches. You might need to sell it one day if you hope to buy a farm or suchlike."

Alain accepted the ring, which was not a ring at all but a mithril bracelet heavily encrusted with precious gems. Mithril was the rarest metal in all of the land and the bracelet would easily buy a whole village, never mind a farmstead. He tore of f a piece of nightshirt to wrap it in then tucked the small parcel into his britches pocket. The ring had looked so tiny in the dragons huge claws that he now knew that some of the glittering stones in that hoard were the size of a cat’s head. No wonder men braved the wrath of dragons to get at the hoards.

"If anyone sees it, tell them one of the raiders dropped it when they rode off." the dragon said sagely, "My hoard isn’t nearly large enough for me to give things away to every treasure seeker who comes looking. Especially when those dwarves come begging for a scrap of metal so they can finish some project or other."

"Why do you have a hoard Mr Dragon?" the boy asked, patting his pocket to make sure the mithril bracelet was safe.

"To remind of us of the days when we were kings ... but there’s no time for that, Alain Dragonfriend. The soldiers will be here very soon. Go on, into the cave with you!"

Alain scurried towards the tunnel then turned back, "I’m sure my family won’t mind being eaten by such a nice dragon!" he said, and waved. Behind him the huge beast winked, then curled up to sleep.

Alain had only been in the cave for a few minutes before the jingling cavalcade of soldiers rounded the corner of the hill and came into view. They were trotting in strict formation along the narrow road which led to Alain’s village a mile away.

"Hey, hey wait for me!" yelled Alain, dashing out of his cave to meet the proud soldiers.

The leader of the twenty soldiers held up a gloved right hand and the whole party halted neatly at his command. He leaned forward in his saddle to peer at the grimy urchin who had scuttled out of the tangled bracken and bramble to land at the feet of his chestnut charger.

Scowling beneath his light mail he asked "And who might you be lad?"

"I’m Alain. The raiders came to the village and killed everyone. I ran and hid in my secret cave when they came after my mother," and remembering that he would never see his mother again he promptly burst into tears.

The leader of the king’s men produced a linen kerchief which he dropped to Alain before he conferred with his men. Six of the brightly mailed men galloped ahead towards the ruined village while the man Alain had spoken to reached down and hauled the boy onto the saddle in front of him. Alain, who had never ridden anything larger than Chloe the pig, clung to the horses mane in fright.

"We came this way because one of the hill shepherds said a dragon had been seen flying over the place last night. I don’t suppose you saw anything lad?"

"No sir. I hid at the back of my cave where they wouldn’t find me. I didn’t see anything after I ran away."

"You’re dead lucky then. Dragons have a nasty habit of eating people. They’re attracted to dead bodies worse than crows are." the soldier explained, "That’s why we’re here —we’re supposed to find it and kill it; stop the wretched best killing anybody."

Alain gulped, "Eat people?" he squeaked.

"Supposed to be their favourite food," the soldier snarled, "If they can’t get men they raid our livestock. Oh they prefer men all right!"

Alain thought for a long while. The dragon hadn’t even tried to eat him, and it had given him a bracelet worth a king’s ransom. The weight of his bracelet pressed comfortably on his leg.

"Where are we going, Sir?" he asked timidly.

"Once we’ve looked around for this dratted dragon we’ll go back to the castle. We’ve ridden a long way and won’t be sorry if the creature’s not around here because my men are in no mood for a fight - want to get back to our wives and get paid."

The party of soldiers sent ahead galloped back into view. They stopped short of the leader’s horse and shook their heads. One of them held up a raider helmet to show that Alain was telling the truth about the attack on the village.

"Nothing left of the village, captain, either the raiders or the dragon burnt it down. Something’s taken most of the bodies, we can easily bury the rest and get the lad back to castle."

"Any sign of the cursed wyrm?" the captain asked.

"Nothing - if its eaten the whole village then it’ll sleep for months. Hopefully it will be someone else’s problem."

The captain harrumphed. "You six, you ride back with me. Corin — you and five others of your choosing bury what’s left of the villagers and catch up with us on the road. This lad’s had enough for today and our patrol should have ended yesterday. I’m not wasting time looking for trouble."

The six men rejoined the cavalcade. Six others were left behind to bury the sad remains of the fighters. Alain thought most of them would rather have been eaten than laid in the cold ground by a lot of surly soldiers.

When the six on burial detail had vanished from view, the captain sent the lightest loaded man as courier to the king with news of the devastation caused by the raiders. The rest of them followed more slowly, their armour jingling and their banter, mainly about women and money, merry. Alain watched the courier gallop off, his banner snapping as he rode under the king’s flag. The device on the bright green pennant was a faded ivory dragon.

HER STRONG ENCHANTMENTS FAILING
Dream 14/15 September 2002

How long had I been stood here on the balcony of my citadel, flinging fireballs across the night? Too long, I knew. I was tired and time-worn while my opponent was young and vigourous. He had taken up residence in a tower at the edge of the neighbouring domain and made clear his intentions to annex my domain. I had no choice but to move to the tower nearest my aggressor and defend my land. Across a bare mile, we hurled enchantments and firebolts at each other and I realised I was losing.

An old earth verse came back to me. Housemain, I think it was.

My enchantments were not failing, but they were no match for the youth and vigour and the masculinity of my opponent. No doubt hormones coursed through his veins alongside adrenaline. I was older, over forty years though not by much. I fought with the caution born of age and, I hoped, experience. He was in his prime - a quarter-century. Old enough to not be foolish, young enough to be both daring and strong. It would not be long.

My lover, Vaan, was inside the citadel. He was packing my belongings. I had instructed him to deliver them to the sisterhood if I lost. While I might cede my domain to the wizard, he would not have my belongings.

Fireball after fireball sizzled across the night. Beams of red light lanced into my citadel, melting stone where I was too slow to deflect them. Then a pause. No more sizzling fires from his tower. Had he tired? I doubted it. More likely he sensed how drained I was. Metaphorically, he had the knife at my neck and he knew it.

According to the old poem I should have been making empty threats:

But wizardry is not like that. I have my domain - my small kingdom - and I protect its borders. My people pursue their lives. For them I am medic, protector, advisor and monarch. But never have I been a tyrant. Magic is not meant for subduing other people, it is a gift to be used to help them. I admit I cannot sew or knit, paint or make furniture. But I can diagnose illness in man, animal and plant. I can magically lift stones which are too heavy for twenty men. I can communicate with the sisterhood, relaying information from one border to another. I give those skills freely in return for gifts of food, clothes and workmanship from my people.

What was he like - the one who opposed me? His signature told me he was a younger man. Was he cruel or vain? Arrogant or co-operative with his people? Did he issue orders or did he lead? I had no wish to deliver my domain into the hands of a tyrant or villain!

Still there were no more assaults from his citadel. I went back inside my tower room where Vaan stood ready to depart if needs be.

"All of my coin is yours," I told him, "My non-magical personal items are yours too."

Those personal items included gifts from past lovers, from people whom I had helped in some way and who wanted to thank me in a personal way.

Vaan nodded. Words weren't necessary, we had said all we had needed to. He had known that one day I might be deposed - from without my domain or from within. Few abdicate. The first act of a new ruler - by force or otherwise - is to remove the previous one or to strip them of their magics, leaving them a mumbling fool unable to even tend to their own bodily functions. Then the remove any natural heirs (if it isn't the heir who has deposed the parent!), which is why I chose childlessness.

A small red light winked into being on the wall. Vaan looked at me. I shook my head in dismay. If my opponent could breach the webs of sorcery guarding my inner chamber, then I was truly lost. All his fireballs had been for display, perhaps to tell my people to expect a new ruler. He was strong enough that he could have felled me at any time, even in the "safety" of my magically guarded tower room. The red dot moved across the wall, seeking me. I moved away and told Vaan to leave, leave now. With tears in his eyes he gathered the parcels he had made and fled the room. His last sight of me was of a woman crouching terrified beside the window, trying to elude the red eye of magic.

When Vaan had gone, I gave up trying to escape. The wizard had breached my defences. He could probably have brought down the whole tower if he wished. He would not though, he wanted the tower. The red dot came to rest on my belly. I heard one word.

"Come"

It was powerful, emotionless. But I thought of Houseman's third verse:

There was no need to say it so eloquently though. The one syllable "come" said it all.

"Yes," I said aloud, and the red dot acknowledged my reply by vanishing.

I was already wearing riding trousers, no need to change. In my heart of hearts I had known it would come to this - tonight, or tomorrow night or the next night. He was young and vigourous and I was older and worn thin with years. I took the stairs. I didn't trust the wizard's well tonight. The wizard's well is an open shaft and I could have stood on empty air and floated downwards. Taking the stairs did me good. By the time I had reached the bottom I was composed again.

Vaan had been thoughtful as he left. The stable-master was waiting at the doorway with two horses - my own bay gelding and a grey gelding from the hiring stables.

"I thought I'd ride with you to the border," he said gruffly. The gruffness disguised his sadness. "Vaan has paid me to keep you safe that far."

I smiled, "What if I hadn't come down?"

"Then I was to send for one of the sisterhood to fetch your body for funerary rights. Vaan said he didn't know if you would surrender yourself or take poison."

"If I took poison, the wizard might not believe I was dead. Or he might feel cheated. I didn't want anyone here to suffer in my stead."

The stable-master nodded and mounted up. I mounted up as well and we set off in silence along the cobbled road to the gate. The gate is nothing more than two posts , one either side of the road, to show where my domain ended and the next began. The rest of the borders are marked by farmers' hedges or suchlike. Only magic-users contest boundaries since only magic can detect where those boundaries are exactly.

At the gate, I dismounted and before the stable-master could question me, I said "He can have me, but not a good riding horse. Give him to one of your sons, but he is to be ridden not put between the shafts of a farm cart!"

"Then accept my thanks on behalf of Eybert, he has always coveted Conker," he replied.

I covered the half mile to the foot of my opponent's tower on foot. At the left hand side of the road were lit torches, their magical white glow lighting my way.

What would become of me? If I was lucky he might be skilled enough to remove my magics but leave my mind intact enough that I spent my remaining years mourning its loss. But why would he bother - a young wizard would have no need of a time-worn sorceress past her physical prime. A cruel victor might put me on public display. A merciful one would kill me. A truly merciful one would have done so the moment I stepped across the boundary, but this one wanted to truly see who he had beaten.

The tower was like mine - like most citadels in fact - brick and stone block with iron-wood doors at the top of wide stone steps. The gargoyles added a gothic touch, but we all have our little conceits. I chose vines and twining roses for my decor. The doors were already open and the entrance hall was in shadow. Whoever he was, he had a taste for the dramatic.

As soon as I was inside, the doors swung shut, sending a draught through the hall. Even with wizard's sight I couldn't see much. Brick tiles under foot, plastered walls and a high ceiling with beams. I didn't dare invoke a ball of light, not in another wizard's citadel. At first, all I could hear were my own pounding heart and my own breathing.

Then .... I heard him rather than saw him. I had an impression of black hair, dark eyes, conceit, sure of his own power, a sneer at the defeated one. I felt my powers draining from me, but leaving my mind more-or-less intact. Suddenly I was a prisoner, shackled inside my own skull. I felt silence inside my head where there had once been magic, darkness where there had once been light. Stillness. I heard him murmur in his throat as though assessing what was to be done with his prisoner.

A hand gripped my chin so that I had to look at him. I felt the other hand grip my breast, but with no gentleness. He had stripped me of magics. He meant to humiliate me physically now - strip me physically, bind me, rape me, have me grovel and beg while some drooling idiot serviced me for his master's entertainment, whatever. All these and worse have been done in times past by those inclined to such cruelties. It boded ill for my domain.

And all the time, all I could think was "Do what you will to me, but what will you do to my land, to my people?"

My strong enchantments failing - but will I die today?

Copyright 1989, Sarah Hartwell

The woman was tall and wore her chestnut hair loose so that it fell in rippling curls down her neck and across her shoulders. With her hands clenched upon her hips and her man’s leather jerkin and breeches she looked like a warrior, and indeed she was going to do battle of a sort. She threw back her head, the curled hair tossing down her back, and lifted her face to the high window of the tower. Then she began to assault the edifice with her only weapon - her voice.

Gadran was nineteen and had spent six of those years as an apprentice mage; the first three at the College of Magery and the latter three in Elegin’s tower within the Deepwood. He was a quick, clever pupil, but now he despaired of ever becoming a master of magicks for he had succumbed to the awful temptation - he had looked at a woman and desire had been kindled within him. Three years more! That was all he needed, another three years to master the spells and potions, the formulae and the components. Then he would be a mage in his own right. He could not afford to fall in love and risk losing the spells, not yet.

He pushed a lock of mousy hair from his eyes and stared at the complex formula again. He had spent all morning looking at it but it had done no good; he could think of nothing but her face. Elegin had grumbled at him for his inattentiveness; Wiz-Spark, the mage’s cat, had huffed angrily at him when he accidentally stepped on her tail because everywhere he looked he could see only brown eyes and fair skin, framed about with a cascade of tangled brown.

She was a singer and had been entertaining in the Laughing Dragon when she had spotted the stranger. He was a lanky youth, dressed in the soft dove-grey robes of an apprentice mage and she supposed he had been running errands for his master and stopped for a bite of lunch and a drink. His eyes had been blue and earnest and she had felt them watching her as she sang the Ballad of Elanor the Fair with its complex metre and interweaving rhymes; by far the most difficult of the ballads she had learnt. He had applauded with the rest, but not thrown coin and when she returned from the privy outside he had gone.

For two days more she had performed in the town; at the Dragon, The Wolf’s Head Tavern, The Rack of Antlers Inn and other smaller establishments where breakfasts and lunches were served. She had not seen him again. Then it was time to pack her lap-harp and fold her gown and climb back into men’s travelling clothes to ride to the next town with her songs and her gift of music. She tried to forget the youth in the dove-grey robes and set her mind to other, higher matters, but it was hard. Oh it was hard.

It had been a bright late spring day when she rode out of the town, everywhere the birds sang to her and insects chirped among the grasses. The air was full of nature’s own special music and life danced to the tune of springtime. By midday she was hungry and broke trail at the edge of the Deepwood by a babbling, chattering, chilly brook that bounced and tumbled out of the wood singing its song of sea-spray as it set off on its long winding journey to the coast. Her saddlebags were full of food and dainties, supplied by the innkeepers or bought in the market so lunch was a leisurely affair while her horse cropped the dark turf among the trees at the wood’s edge. Then another tune had superimposed itself upon the stream’s merry music, a voice humming part of the Ballad of Elanor.

There was a splash, a curse and the sound of a full bucket being carried. Curious, Kathrie scrambled to her feet and traced a barely trodden path beside the stream. Carrying a full bucket, which slopped over his legs where the grey-robe was tucked up into his belt, was the lanky youth whose eyes had followed her one midday in the Laughing Dragon.

"Stop!" she yelled at him, "I want to talk to you."

He turned his head at her most unmusical call and his face went white. Trembling he ran to the foot of the tower which had nestled hidden in the Deepwood and had slammed the wooden door tight behind him. No matter how she called or hammered on the door there was no reply.

Gadran burrowed his face into his hands at the thought of his temptation. He had been mortified when she had seen him drawing water from the stream. Elegin refused to let him waste energy conjuring water so the twice daily trip to the stream was a necessity. She was just as he had remembered, a cascade of chestnut curls around a somehow strong, somehow soft face; brown eyes and hunter’s-bow lips. Gadran was alone in the tower, his master had gone seeking herbs and solitude in the deepest reaches of the wood. He was thankful for that because the woman began to sing, her rich beautiful voice weaving together his longing and desire, his homesickness and ambition and all his self-doubts. She had come back to do so again in the evening and he had had to conjure water in case she was waiting for him at the stream. He dared not give in to temptation.

He was, therefore, mortified when she began singing again. Elegin looked up at him and demanded, "Who’s that?" and he had not dared answer.

"Well who is it? Gadran, answer me, who the devil is that and what is she doing down there?"

"I don’t know," the apprentice had answered quite truthfully, because he did not know anything about her apart from her face and her voice.

For four days, she came to the tower each dusk and sang until full dark sent her back to her camp at the edge of the wood. For four days Gadran immersed himself in his studies and avoided the gaze of Elegin, wondering how much the old mage knew and how much he suspected. Did he know that his apprentice had felt lust for the woman or did he suspect much worse? Gadran could only try to pretend the singing voice meant nothing to him.

On the fifth day she sang while they were in the upper chamber which overlooked the clearing the tower occupied. Gadran peered out of the window and was transfixed by her song and her face. She sang to him sad stanzas where lovers were held apart by adversity or death; of longing and hope, desire and desolation. Irritated by his apprentice’s inattentiveness, Elegin stood behind the boy and stared with furrowed brow at the singer.

Kathrie knew she had gone too far when the older mage appeared at the open window. Gadran was hooked, unable to turn away, his master was scowling behind him. Gadran’s eyes, his face, his expression was as she remembered; his hands clutched the sill as he leaned out and she wondered what it would be like to feel the clutch of those hands. His master was taut with annoyance at the interruption; between them they held the young apprentice in thrall, torn between love and ambition.

She had come to do war, even if her only weapon was song. Angrily she pointed at Elegin, and sang a song of ire and lover’s wrath at the forces holding them apart.

"Sorcerer, who is the master,

Who is the slave, who feels desire?

Sorcerer, what is the reason,

Loveless be, to the heart treason,

Loveless be, to the heart sorrow,"

She sang pain and wove separation into the melody, unaccompanied by harp or lark-song she filled the clearing with resonating song. The air throbbed with it, the ineffable sadness, the aloneness as she question at the mage’s right to keep his apprentice from her. With her hands and her whole body she gestured emptiness~ and warmth.

Roughly, the older mage pulled his apprentice from the window and leaned out himself.

"You, who are you, girl, that presumes to interrupt me?" he snarled.

"You, who are you mage who presumes to keep a man’s heart away from women?"

"Pah!" was Elegin’s only reply, "You know nothing."

"I know that when he finally leaves your tower all means of desiring women will have been cut from him. What know you who can barely remember your manhood?" her voice was rich and sweet and taunting.

Gadran heard his master’s voice take on a note of wrath, it had reached that dangerous intensity which meant the older man had become unpredictable. Elegin turned to him.

"Gadran, what means this she-whore to you?"

"She is only a singer, master," the boy answered respectfully and in perfect truth, inwardly aching at the memory of her face.

Elegin turned and leaned out once more, "Go!" he ordered.

In reply, she stared him full in the face and began to sing, "Sorcerer ... "

Elegin pointed at the presumptuous singer and a bright spark spat from his index finger. It struck Kathrie and she fell in a heap of tumbled, crumpled clothing. From the folds of the empty shirt hopped a small bird. With bright eyes and fluttering heart it flew to a nearby branch and began to sing as though its heart would burst. Even to this day it sings sorrow and hope and the lost Ballad of Elanor. Men call it the nightingale and its song is so beautiful it is said that a man can₁ for one hundred years) stand listening to Kathrie’s children sing and not notice the flow of time.