Dragonheart by Charles Edward POGUE Page A

track!

Nine
    A DUEL
    “No profit this time, purely pleasure.”
    The horse slowly sloshed through the stream. Bowen leaned forward in the saddle, staring down into the clear, rippling water. The dragon track was plainly visible, impressed in the mud of the shallow creekbed.
    Bowen glanced up and smiled as he listened to the soothing hum of the gentle waterfall that spilled over an overhang of rock downstream. His dragon would be there.
    Things were picking up. He had not seen a dragon for over six months. Now two within the week. Maybe the long drought was over at last. He jerked up his lance and reined his steed toward the falls. He regretted his abrupt departure from Gilbert, but the poor fellow had already had one near-fatal encounter with a dragon and Bowen didn’t want to expose him to another. He also didn’t need the responsibility of another person’s safety. The old wreck of a dragon in the wheatfield had been a fairly simple opponent to defeat. But who knew what lay in wait for him behind the falls? The friar had been a pleasant diversion from his solitary purpose. Oh, he was a bit too chatty and a positively wretched poet. But he was an earnest and well-meaning fellow with a good heart. Bowen had forgotten how much he missed affable companionship.
    “Yoo-hoo . . .” The voice came from the creekbank, from behind a pile of gray boulders, several of which glistened almost silvery in the sun. Gilbert appeared, huffing and puffing up the ridge of the rocks. He carried his literary sack, stuffed with manuscripts, enthusiastically waving his quill, hallooing for attention. “Bowen! Bowen!”
    Bowen muttered an oath and, wheeling in the saddle, rode toward the bank. The monk trod onto a sun-dazzled boulder that seemed to totter slightly as he plopped his bag down and started to rummage through it.
    “I’m not too late, am I?” Gilbert asked excitedly as Bowen rode up.
    “What are you doing here, Gilbert?” the knight demanded in a snarled whisper.
    “Where else should I be when history’s in the making?” The scribe smiled, oblivious to Bowen’s pique, and flourished his quill. “I’ve come to immortalize you!”
    “Shhh!” Bowen admonished him with a nervous glance back at the cave.
    The priest produced a bottle of ink from his pack. “How do you prefer I write this?”
    “Far away.”
    The sarcasm went right over Gilbert’s head. The priest chuckled good-naturedly and fumbled some more in his bag.
    “Oh, please, don’t concern yourself with my safety,” Gilbert’s voice boomed out above even the rushing falls, much to Bowen’s consternation. “No, I meant style. Verse. Meter. Shall I spice it up with a poetical flourish or just the cold hard facts?”
    He unrolled some blank manuscript. Seething, Bowen poked his lance through it and jerked it away. “Why don’t you go ask the dragon? Get out of here!”
    Bowen realized his curt exasperation had wounded Gilbert’s feelings. The friar’s face fell in dejection as he stepped out to the edge of the shiny rock to confront Bowen.
    “That’s a fine attitude!” He pouted as he peevishly snatched his scroll off the lance. The rock seemed to teeter under him slightly. It teetered more as Gilbert stomped his foot to emphasize his indignation. “I come to record your exploits for posterity and you try to muzzle the mouth of chronicle, lop off the tongue of truth. It’s all very well to go about hacking and whacking dragons, but if a dragon falls in the forest and no one hears about it, does it make a thud?”
    The unstable rock shook under Gilbert’s pounding sandal and the priest lost his balance, his rump plopping back onto the boulder. Gilbert recovered with a haughty harrumph, and discreetly pulling the hem of his cassock back around his ankles, he flattened his scroll against the rock, dipped his quill liberally in the ink vial, and began to scribble defiantly across it, as though he had intended sitting down to write all the time. Before