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I was awakened by Gordon van Gordon, who was pulling on my sleeve and urging me to wakefulness. I had been dreaming of Dragons again, but not all the dreams were good ones. Maltcassion had been looking at me with a grim expression, explaining what it meant to him to be a Dragon, but I hadn’t really been listening and missed something important, which annoyed me.

‘What’s that noise?’ I asked.

‘It’s the red phone.’

‘I don’t have a red phone. And what are you doing in Zambini Towers?’

‘We’re not in Zambini Towers.’

He was right. I was in the Dragonstation. I hurried downstairs. The red phone was kept under a glass dome a little like a sandwich cover just next to the sword Exhorbitus, and the phone was wailing slowly to itself. If a Dragon had done something wrong, then this was how a Dragonslayer would know about it. With shaking hand I picked up the receiver and listened intently. The news was not what I had wanted to hear.

It was five in the morning, and the low sun was just spreading its rays across the land as I drove towards Longtown, a town right on the edge of the Dragonlands. A ‘Police line do not cross’ tape was stretched across the road near the castle, and I parked the Rolls-Royce next to a large contingent of police cars. I introduced myself to a policewoman, who guided me among the many emergency personnel and news crews. The road underfoot was awash with water and the sheer number of fire appliances made me uneasy.

‘We meet again, Miss Strange,’ said Detective Norton, who was standing with Sergeant Villiers near an upturned eighteen-wheeled truck. ‘I should arrest you right now for withholding evidence.’

‘I didn’t know I was the last Dragonslayer then.’

‘That’s your story.’

‘Events have moved on,’ I told them. They looked me up and down.

‘Kind of young for a Dragonslayer?’ said Norton finally.

I stared back at him.

‘Perhaps you’d tell me what’s going on?’

‘We found the claw marks in the cab.’

He beckoned me to follow, and we walked towards where a large ConStuff truck was lying upended in a field. It had been completely gutted by fire, and the water used to extinguish the flames had run down the field and flooded the road with mud. Norton pointed. On the bodywork, just below the roofline, were two large grooved holes, as though something very massive and very strong had simply squeezed it.

‘Vandals?’ I asked, somewhat dubiously.

Detective Norton stared at me as though I were an imbecile.

‘Talons, Miss Strange, talons. This van was taken from Gloucester last night and turns up here. When the fire services arrived they were positive there were no wheel tracks; if you look here . . .’

He indicated an area of damage to the rear of the truck, which had been heavily stoved in – the back axle had almost been torn off.

‘It looks as though the truck was dropped from a great height.’

‘So what are you saying?’ I asked him.

‘You tell me, Miss Dragonslayer. Looks as though Maltcassion picked up this van, tried to fly with it back to the Dragonlands but dropped it on the way. To try and disguise the crime, he torched it.’

‘A truck hardly counts as livestock, does it?’

‘A technicality. The Dragonpact cites damage to property as a punishable offence. I think what we’ve got here is a rogue Dragon.’

‘That’s sort of far fetched,’ I said, trying to play the incident down. It was a serious accusation. A rogue Dragon was a Dragon out of control; one that had transgressed the rules of the Dragonpact. Such a Dragon could legally be destroyed. That’s the trouble with premonitions; they have an annoying habit of coming true.

‘Did anyone see it?’

Norton looked at his feet.

‘No.’

‘Anyone hear anything, see it being flown out here?’

‘No.’

‘Then by the rules of the Dragonpact I’m going to have to see at least two other uncorroborated incidents of Dragonattack before I can even consider this a rogue Dragon.’

Norton rounded on me angrily.

‘It’s pretty clear cut—!’

‘Then you punish him, Norton,’ I responded. ‘I’m going to need to see better evidence than this.’

I left Norton, lifted the ‘do not cross’ tape and was instantly assailed by a wall of journalists.

‘Was this an attack by a Dragon?’ asked a reporter from The Whelk.

‘Unlikely.’

‘How could you know it wasn’t Maltcassion?’

‘I didn’t say it wasn’t.’

‘Is it true that you studied zoology at GCSE level?’

‘It is.’

‘And that you once gave money to the Endangered Buzonji Fund?’

‘Many people do.’

‘And you aim to study Maltcassion?’

‘If I can.’

‘Then you have a vested interest in keeping the Dragon alive?’

‘What are you saying?’ I asked, scarcely able to believe where this questioning was going.

‘We’re wondering whether you are qualified to make an objective decision on Dragondeath. Perhaps in light of your dubious conflict of interests you had best leave Dragonslaying to someone else. We understand Sir Matt Grifflon has just held a press conference in which he stated his eagerness to assume your duties; has he contacted you?’

I didn’t answer and another reporter took a turn as I walked in the direction of the Rolls-Royce.

‘Sophie Trotter of the UKBC,’ announced the reporter. ‘Miss Strange, does the prospect of having to carry out your duty fill you with trepidation?’

‘It won’t come to that.’

‘But if Maltcassion reneges on the Dragonpact, you will act to destroy him?’

‘If he does, I will carry out my duty.’

‘Do you think King Snodd’s declaration of “no confidence” in your abilities will make you reconsider your decision to resign?’

I stopped so fast the pack of journalists nearly walked into the back of me.

‘King Snodd said that?’

‘At Sir Matt Grifflon’s press conference late last night. He called for your resignation and endorsed Sir Matt taking your place. Such an undertaking is allowed under the Dragonslayer’s charter, we take it?’

‘I can transfer my calling . . . but only to a knight,’ I murmured, realising that I was being steadily outmanoeuvred.

‘So will you be resigning?’

‘Listen,’ I replied somewhat testily, ‘I am the last Dragonslayer. I will uphold the rule of law as laid down by the Dragonpact of 1607 to the best of my abilities. I have no plans to do otherwise. Excuse me.’

I climbed aboard the armoured Rolls-Royce. Gordon van Gordon was in the driver’s seat and we pulled away from the mob and headed back to town.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Sure. I was hoping to be able to study Maltcassion at my leisure; that hope is rapidly fading.’

Gordon nodded in the direction of the truck.

‘What was all that about?’

‘Villiers thought it was a Dragonattack; talon marks on an eighteen-wheeler. Even if it was Maltcassion – which I doubt – it isn’t enough to have him destroyed. If he does it several times, then I might have to do something. The good thing is that no one was killed. So long as no lives are lost, I can drag this out for a month at least.’

‘So who if not Maltcassion?’

‘Who knows? Both Hereford and Brecon could have done it. The Dragonlands are of great strategic importance to them both. I’ve got no way of knowing who is telling the truth. Brecon says he doesn’t want the land at all and is fearful of being invaded, whereas King Snodd is convinced that he wants to take over the whole area. I don’t know who to believe, so I’ve cancelled them both out like opposite ends of an equation. I’ll have to judge all this on merit as we go along.’

I lapsed into silence as we drove back to the Dragonstation. There were a lot of reporters there too, but I avoided them all as Gordon drove me straight into the garage. The news of my refusal to kill the Dragon without corroboration spread quickly and I had to leave the phone off the hook after some unpleasant calls. A jeering mob started to yell outside the Dragonstation that I was a coward or something, which went on for an hour until some animal-rights campaigners turned up on my behalf. There was a short battle and the police waded in with water cannon and tear gas. I don’t think anyone was hurt but a brick came through the front window.

‘Tea?’ said Gordon with a masterful piece of good timing. ‘I’ve made a cake, too.’

‘Thank you.’