Dragonheart by Charles Edward POGUE Page B

Bowen could stop him, he took up his admonishing sermon once more, his disgruntlement droning out across the creek. “You’re nothing without the likes of me. Heroics don’t make heroes, ballad makers do. The quill is mightier than the sword!”
    “Shhh!”
    “You can’t shush history, lad! Its voice lives forever!”
    “Which is longer than either you or I will, if you don’t shut up!”
    Bowen’s frantic whisper, along with his exaggerated rolling of eyes and a jabbed gesture of his lance toward the waterfall, finally penetrated Gilbert’s perception.
    “Good Lord!” The priest promptly clamped a hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to recapture the escaped exclamation. “So sorry!” he whispered to Bowen with a sheepish grin. “The element of surprise!”
    “It was the idea!” Bowen sighed indulgently. “Now get you gone, friar.”
    “I stay, sir!”
    “Are you mad?”
    “You’ll find the courage of I, who witness, no less than that of you, who do.”
    Gilbert had risen to his feet and gotten into his pulpit again, wildly and insistently waving his quill. Ink splattered from its freshly dipped point across the rock, which suddenly shuddered, and Bowen saw its hard surface crinkle—crinkle and open up, exposing a giant ink-stained eye glaring up at the priest. Gilbert was still vociferously avowing his courage . . . unaware of the fact that it was about to be tested.
    “You will see that I . . . I . . . I—yi . . . yi!”
    “Gilbert!” Bowen’s warning shout was already too late. The rocks shook with a violent rumble and collapsed into the lake with a giant splash. Trying to steady his frightened horse, Bowen saw Gilbert come careening through the spray of water at him in midair. Bowen ducked as the priest, wailing, pitched over the horse’s back into the creek. Bowen whirled his horse to the bank. Most of the rocky mass upon which Gilbert was perched had disappeared, leaving only a sandy beach. He steered his mount back to the sound of more splashing, just in time to see . . .
    . . . a dragon tail, slithering along the creek, its dull gray hue transforming to a glittery warm brown. Bowen pursued, poking his lance into the water after the splashing tail. But it disappeared through the waterfall.
    His horse shied at the falls and Bowen saw the huge, dark silhouette loom up behind the cascade.
    “Come out of there, you skulking brute,” Bowen demanded.
    “Go away!” came the weary reply.
    “Come out or I’ll come in . . .”
    “Suit yourself.”
    A battered breastplate came flying out of the waterfall, splashing in front of Bowen, who steadied his nervous steed.
    “That’s what’s left of the last fellow who entered uninvited.” The sonorous hiss snaked through the spray of water.
    “That doesn’t frighten me.”
    “No? How about this? Or this? Or this?”
    A barrage of crumpled armor and bones clattered through the veil of water, half of it crashing into Gilbert, who was trying to rise out of the stream. He scampered out of the debris, floundering to his feet, when suddenly the complete skeleton of a horse and rider jangled out of the falls, splashing in a heap and washing a wave of water over the startled priest that sent him flopping back into the creek. The helmeted head landed in his lap. Gilbert shrieked as he juggled the skull in his hands, then gasped in amazement on closer inspection. It wore the plume-crested helmet of a centurion. He held it up to Bowen with a scholar’s delight.
    “Look, Bowen, late Roman! I don’t believe it!”
    Bowen couldn’t believe it either. “I’m a little preoccupied, Gilbert, for one of your history lessons.”
    “It’s my history lesson, Knight,” growled the voice behind the falls. “And you’d best learn from it. Or history will repeat itself. I’ve quite a collection in here.”
    “I won’t be added to it!” Bowen eyed the shadow, then suddenly cast his lance with a mighty heave. It shot halfway through the falls before