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I turned but saw no one.

‘Who’s there?’ I asked, my voice trembling. I thought I was the only one allowed in the Dragonlands. I looked around but still could see no one, and was just thinking of climbing the odd pile of stones to get a better look when I noticed, lying in the rubble, a fine red jewel about the size of a tennis ball. I reached out to touch it and a leathery lid covered the jewel and flipped back up again. I froze. The jewel moved as it looked me up and down, and Maltcassion spoke again:

‘Bit young for a Dragonslayer, aren’t you?’

The pile of rubble moved as he spoke and I felt the ground shiver. He unwrapped his tail and stretched it out, then, using it as a back-scratcher, rubbed his back just above where two wings were folded tightly against his spine.

‘I’m sixteen,’ I muttered indignantly.

‘Sixteen?’

‘In a fortnight.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ replied the Dragon sarcastically, ‘bags of experience.’

He raised his massive head from where he had been hiding it between his two front claws and looked at me curiously. Then he opened his mouth wide and yawned. Two large rows of teeth about the size of milk bottles presented themselves to me. The teeth were old and brown and several had broken off. My eyes started to water at the smell of his breath, which was a powerful concoction of rotting animal, vegetation, fish and methane gas. He raised his head and coughed a large ball of fire into the air before looking at me again.

‘Excuse me,’ he muttered apologetically, ‘the body grows old. What’s that, by the way?’

‘It’s my Quarkbeast.’

‘Is that so?’ said Maltcassion as he leaned closer to look. ‘So that’s what one looks like. Does it change colour?’

‘Only when there’s too much silicon in its diet.’

‘Ah.’

He then dug his two front claws into the hard-packed soil and pushed with his hind legs to stretch. The power of his rear easily overcame the anchoring properties of his front, and his claws pushed through the solid earth like twin ploughshares. There was a large crack from his back and he relaxed.

‘Ooh!’ he muttered. ‘That’s better.’

This done, his wings snapped open like a spring-loaded umbrella and he beat them furiously, setting up a dust storm that made me cough. I noticed that one wing was badly tattered; the membrane covering was ripped in several places. After a minute or two of this he folded them delicately across his back, then turned his attention back to me. He came closer and sniffed at me delicately. Oddly, I felt no fear of him. Perhaps that was my training; I didn’t suppose I would have dared stand next to forty tons of fire-breathing dragon twenty-four hours ago without feeling at least some anxiety. I could feel the sharp inrush of air tug violently at me as he inhaled. He seemed satisfied at last and put his head down again, so once more his scaly skin looked like nothing more than a huge pile of rubble.

‘So, Dragonslayer,’ he asked loftily, ‘you have a name?’

‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I announced as grandly as I could. ‘I present myself to you by way of introduction. I sincerely hope that I have no need of my calling, and that you and the citizenry—’

‘Claptrap,’ said Maltcassion, ‘pure claptrap. But I thank you anyway. Before you go, could you do me a favour?’

‘Certainly.’

He rolled on to his side and lifted a front leg, pointing with the other to an area just behind his shoulder blade.

‘Old wound. Would you mind?’

I clambered on to his chest and looked at the area he indicated. Just behind a leathery scale was a rusty object protruding from a wound that had obviously been trying to heal for a while. I grasped the object with both hands and then, pressing my feet against his rough hide, pulled with all my might. I was just beginning to think that it would never come out when I was suddenly on my back in the dust. In my hands was a very rusted and very bent sword.

‘Thank you!’ said Maltcassion, reaching round to lick the wound with a tongue the size of a mattress. ‘That’s been annoying me for about four centuries.’

I threw the rusty sword away.

‘You may help yourself to some gold or jewels by way of payment, Miss Strange.’

‘I require no payment, sir.’

‘Really? I thought all mankind gravitated towards things that were shiny? I’m not saying it’s necessarily a bad thing, but when it comes to species development, it could be limiting.’

‘I’m not here for money. I’m here to do the right thing.’

‘Principled as well as fearless!’ murmured Maltcassion with a chuckle. ‘Quite a Dragonslayer! My name is Maltcassion, Miss Strange. You have a good heart. We were right to wait for you. You may leave now.’

‘Wait for me?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean?’

But he had finished speaking. He closed his jewel-like eyes and shuffled to get more comfortable. I couldn’t think of anything more to say so I just stared at this huge untidy heap that was the rarest animal on the entire planet. Considering the amount of time and effort spent on the protection of endangered species such as pandas, snow-leopards and Buzonjis, I suddenly became perplexed and not a little angry that here was a creature of extraordinary nobility and intelligence that everyone actually wanted to die so they could grab some land.

‘It’s a PR thing,’ said the Dragon, half to itself.

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a public relations thing,’ he said again, opening his eyes and staring at me. ‘Why do people spend millions trying to save dolphins, yet eat tuna by the bucketful. Isn’t that what you were thinking of?’

‘You can read my thoughts?’

‘Only when someone feels passionately about something. Ordinary thoughts are pretty dull. Powerful ideas have a life of their own, they carry on, unshakeable, from person to person. Wouldn’t you agree?’

He didn’t wait for an answer, but carried on.

‘Elephants, gorillas, Buzonjis, dolphins, snow-leopards, Shridloos, tigers, lions, cheetahs, whales, seals, manatees, orang-utans, pandas – what have all these got in common?’

‘They’re all endangered.’

‘Apart from that.’

‘They’re all pretty big?’ I hazarded.

‘They’re all mammals,’ said Maltcassion contemptuously. ‘You seem to be making this planet into an exclusive mammals-only club. If seal cubs were as ugly as the average reptile, I wonder if you’d bother with them at all. But those big eyes and the cute barking and the soft fur, well, they just melt your little mammalian heart, don’t they?’

‘There are other non-mammals that are protected,’ I argued, but Maltcassion wasn’t impressed.

‘Window dressing, nothing more. No one much cares about the reptiles, bugs or fishes, unless, of course, they look nice. Seems a pretty crummy method of selecting species for survival, doesn’t it to you? If you want to redress your overtly mammal supremacist attitudes, I should ban the words “cuddly”, “cute” and “fluffy”, for a start.’

‘At least we’re doing something,’ I pleaded.

‘If your idea of something is helping less than one hundredth of one per cent of the world’s species, then you all deserve a medal. There are six great apes – all of which you merit of special attention – but over six hundred different varieties of the floon beetle alone.’

‘Floon beetle?’ I queried. ‘I’ve never even heard of a floon beetle.’

‘And that’s my point,’ said Maltcassion triumphantly. ‘You lot haven’t even discovered one, let alone the other five hundred and ninety-nine. And a floon beetle is a fascinating creature. One variety turns itself inside out purely for kicks and giggles, and another has the power of invisibility. A third secretes an enzyme that will convert raw marzipan to usable Almondoleum without the need for vast distillation plants. They are the most singular creatures on this planet, and yet mankind knows nothing about them at all. Do you see what I mean?’

‘Floon beetle, eh?’ I mused.

‘You know,’ he went on, after lapsing into silence for a few moments, ‘if someone asked me to sum up all complex life on Earth in two words, do you know what I’d say?’

I shook my head.

‘Mainly insects.’

I couldn’t think of much to say about this, so I asked instead:

‘Can I come and see you again?’

‘Why?’

‘To ask you some questions.’

‘Why?’

‘So we might know more about Dragons.’

‘Humans,’ he scoffed. ‘Always so inquiring about stuff. Never satisfied with the status quo. It will be your downfall, but oddly enough, it’s also one of your more endearing features.’

‘Do we have any others?’

‘Oh yes, plenty.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, counting in base ten is pretty wild, for a start,’ he said after giving the subject a moment’s thought. ‘Base twelve is far superior. You also have extraordinary technical abilities, a terrific sense of humour, thumbs, being built inside out—’

‘Wait! Being built inside out?’

‘Of course. As far as the average lobster is concerned, mammals – with the possible exception of the armadillo – are built inside out. Any crab worth his claws will tell you the soft stuff should definitely be on the inside. Bones in the middle? Whoever designed you was having a serious off day.’

I thought about this for a moment as Maltcassion continued:

‘Pretty daft, wouldn’t you agree? If I was looking for a transfer I’d be going towards the crustaceans; the crabs, lobsters, shrimps and so forth. Put it this way: if you lost a limb, would it grow back?’

‘No.’

‘Mine neither, but if we were a member of the crustacean family we could expect a new limb the following year. Mind you, if we’re talking about regeneration we could go a step farther and take a leaf out of the sponge book. There are sponges you can chop to pieces, whizz up in the blender and then press through a sieve, and they’ll still regenerate.’

‘Useful, maybe,’ I replied, ‘but I think there is a limit to the amount of fun you could have as a sponge.’

‘I think you have something there,’ conceded the Dragon. ‘I’m not sure that crabs and lobsters are exactly funsters either. I was once told a joke by a crab and it was really dire; something about two shrimps going on holiday and one leaves his case on the train – I forget the details.’

‘I never thought about crabs having a sense of humour.’

‘Well, they do. You wouldn’t walk sideways for any other reason, would you?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Lobsters are more serious and cultured. Hermit crabs don’t say much but think a great deal. Horseshoe crabs are frankly a bit dim, but shrimps and prawns, well, they just love to party.’

‘You seem to know a lot about animals.’

‘I’m always surprised that you lot don’t take more interest in other creatures. It’s like living in a street and not knowing your next-door neighbour. If I were human I’d start investing in a little kindness. When the arthropods rule the planet all those lobster dishes and crab sticks could well be a cause of some regret. The Blessed Ladies of the Lobster might be a figure of fun right now, but in 1.8 billion years’ time, during the Rise of the Lobsters, everyone will be clamouring to join.’

‘I don’t think mammals are on the way out, Maltcassion.’

‘That’s what the giant reptiles said. What are they now? Birds. One moment you’re tearing a Stegosaurus to bits with rows of razor-sharp fangs, next thing your name’s Joey and you’re sharing a cage with a bell, a ladder and a dried cuttlefish. Bit of a come-down for a mighty thunder lizard, don’t you think?’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Well, Darwin got it very nearly completely right. A remarkable brain for a human. But he overlooked one thing. Natural selection is also governed by a sense of humour.’

‘I’m not sure I’m quite with you.’

‘Well, you’ve heard the phrase “Nature abhors a vacuum”?’

I nodded.

‘Well, I would add to that: “Nature adores a joke”. You would see it yourself if only your lifespan were long enough. Over ninety million years ago there was a small, brightly coloured beetle named a Sklhrrg beetle. It was beautiful. I mean really beautiful. Even the most brainless toad would stop and gaze adoringly. It strutted around the forest, preening and primping itself, being admired by all. A few thousand years of this and it had evolved into one of the most vain and obnoxious creatures you could possibly meet. It was all “me, me, me”. Other beetles avoided it, and party invitations simply dried up. But as I said, nature adores a joke. Ninety million years later and what has it evolved into?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The dung beetle. Dull coloured and innocuous, it pushes dung around. Lives in it, eats it, lays its eggs in it. Don’t tell me nature doesn’t enjoy a good joke!’

Maltcassion grunted out a short burst of fire that I took to be a laugh, then muttered something about chameleons telling jokes in colours before he settled down, shut his eyes and presently started to snore. Since he didn’t specifically say I wasn’t to return, I supposed he wouldn’t mind me coming back, so I stared at the heap of rubble for a while, delighted at my good fortune so far. His tattered wing led me to suppose that he couldn’t fly, and if that was the case I couldn’t see him actually getting out to break the Dragonpact. I waited until I was sure he was truly asleep, then crept from the clearing and retraced my steps back towards the marker stones and the Rolls-Royce.

As I walked over the last rise I was surprised to see that a large group of people had gathered at the spot where I had entered the Dragonlands six hours previously. The potential claimants had alerted the press and TV stations; the last Dragonslayer was news indeed. I walked down to the marker stones and stepped through the force-field as the crowd nervously eased back.

‘Auster Old-Spott of The Daily Whelk,’ said one man in a shabby suit. ‘Can I ask your name?’ He thrust a microphone in my face as another equally shabby newsman said:

‘Paul Tamworth of The Clam. Have you seen Maltcassion?’

‘When do you expect to kill the Dragon?’ asked a third.

‘How did you get to be a Dragonslayer?’ asked another. A man in a suit elbowed his way through the crowd and showed me a contract. ‘My name is Oscar Pooch,’ he announced, ‘I represent Yummy-Flakes breakfast cereals and I’d like you to endorse our product. Ten thousand moolah a year. Do we agree? Sign here please.’

‘Don’t listen to him!’ said another man in a pinstripe suit. ‘Our company will offer you twenty thousand moolah for exclusive rights to represent Fizzi-Pop soft drinks. Sign here—!’

‘Wait!’ I shouted.

The whole crowd went silent. All one hundred, two hundred, I don’t know how many there were, but there were a lot. The cameramen from the TV stations trained their cameras on me, waiting for whatever I had to say.

‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I began, to the sound of frantic scribbling from the newspapermen’s pens. ‘I am the new Dragonslayer. Charged by the Mighty Shandar himself, I will uphold the rules of the Dragonpact and protect the people from the Dragon, and the Dragon from the people. I will issue a full statement in due course. That is all.’

I was impressed by the speech, but then I had been bound to pick up a thing or two during Brian Spalding’s one-minute accelerated Dragonslaying course. I retrieved the Rolls-Royce and headed back into town, the crush of journalists and photographers following me as best as they could. Brian Spalding had never alerted me to this sort of media attention, although the sound of twenty thousand moolah just to endorse Fizzi-Pop sounded like some very easy money indeed.