Melehan stared down at the decapitated body of the dragon for a few minutes without speaking.

It was hard to look at what had happened here and feel anything other than deep unease: he'd never seen the like before. Of course, his experience with dead dragons was reasonably limited, but at least there had been a consistency regarding how that state of being had been achieved. The motto of the Dragon Hunter's Guild was, after all, "Big balls, big axe, big loot."

But this dragon had not lost its head to any sort of cutting blade. Someone had, quite literally, ripped it from its shoulders. He did not know exactly how much strength that would have required, but he was willing to bet it lay somewhere between 'a lot' and 'a fuckload'.

He glanced at the man who had asked for his opinion on this particular blood-drenched scene. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, my Lord. This is definitely a dead dragon."

"I know that, you cretin. I want to know what killed it."

"Having its head torn off would be my guess. I mean, it might have been poisoned, maybe even an especially acute toothache, but the 'no head' thing seems favourite right now."

Pæga licked his lips and cuffed Melehen around the head. "Do not forget your place, wizard."

Melehan took a breath and cycled away the Qi which had gathered in his hands. The High King had been clear as to the consequences for any practitioners that stepped out of line during this invasion. As much as he would enjoy kicking Pæga's arse every step of the way back over the river, it would not be worth the price.

Disrespect was temporary. Damnation was forever.

"I apologise, my Lord. I misunderstood the direction of your question. On reflection, I would suggest that this must have been the work of a cultivator of unusual capacity."

"Explain."

"Contrary to popular opinion, dragons are, naturally, this more modest of sizes. But, when threatened, they have the capability to increase their mass a hundredfold. Therefore, whoever was able to kill this dragon did not only force it to return to normal size - and that would take power beyond my comprehension - but then proceeded to decapitate it without using an edged weapon. Frankly, my Lord, whoever did this pulled the dragon's head off. As these creatures are deadly even at this size, I am wholly baffled as to how they managed it."

Pæga's tongue whipped out and around his suddenly dry lips. "Do you suggest, therefore, the presence of Merlin?" He cast his eyes fearfully at the sky, expecting that particular boogeyman to appear instantly.

"Merlin would certainly have the required power, my Lord. It's just -"

Melehan paused and looked around the ruin. He could feel that Celt was somewhere nearby but could not get the sort of fix as to her location that he was used to achieving. He was as troubled by that as anything else he had seen this day.

"What?"

"I am not sure why he would bother, my Lord. This is Voltigerns's Dragon. It's not one of the great Spirit Beasts of the realm, and it has been around these parts forever. If we believe the stories, and I always believe the stories where Merlin is concerned, he made a habit of feeding his apprentices to it. Not like for sport, but as a threshold test."

"He used a dragon for an aptitude test?"

"He's Merlin. He can do whatever he wants. And regularly did. Who's going to stop him?"

Pæga nodded. "But if he had the power to achieve this, why don't you think this was Merlin?"

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The wizard knelt and touched the pooled blood of the dragon. There were pieces of some sort of material in it. He rubbed them between his fingers. Was this hemp? Like from a dress. "It just would not be worth his time. For someone as advanced as him, the Qi he'd gather here would be like a grain of sand on the beach. It would probably actually end up costing him essence by the time he was finished. Even with what might be found in the dragon's hoard -"

"There's a hoard?"

Melehan sighed and cursed his loose lips. Any hopes he had of getting his master to turn around and get back on mission were now thoroughly dashed. If there was one thing guaranteed to get Pæga's attention, it was unclaimed stacks of coins. Or claimed ones, to be honest. He was not too picky either way, from what Melehan was able to tell.

Not for the first time, the wizard found himself questioning some of his recent life choices.

Melehan had always been interested in cultivation and had been fortunate that his father had the resources to indulge his much-loved youngest son. Almost as soon as he could read, he'd had access to the very best technique scrolls and cultivation manuals that could be located. Moreover, no natural treasure would pass nearby without Melehan having the first claim on it.

Of course, even with all that, he was, at best, a minor talent, but his family had been proud of him, and he enjoyed being the source of that pride.

And then, six months ago, the levels of accessible Qi in the land unaccountably surged.

In the blink of an eye, Melehan went from spending days and nights diligently prodding desultory grains of sand around his channels to being buried up to his neck in the stuff. Thanks to his years of patiently building a solid foundation, he could make far better use of this bounty compared to all the other hedge wizards that were suddenly popping up everywhere.

He was now a talent that could, by no means, be considered minor any longer.

And then the High King came calling.

The rumour was that he - or at least those with his coin in their pockets - had conducted some sort of arcane ritual that had uncorked the bottleneck of Qi that had forever strangled the land. Melehan was not so sure about that, but he was certainly not going to question it if that was the story that terrifying man wanted out there. That sort of thinking got people nailed to walls.

A host of practitioners had responded to the High King's summons for all those whose powers had recently blossomed. The unspoken message had clearly been: "Come and say thank you". Melehan was happy to do so, although that happiness had wained somewhat when the nature of the 'thanks' required became clear: all those with sufficient talent were expected to join the long-anticipated invasion of what remained of Uther's Britain.

"What about Merlin?" they had all asked in the same tone the recently condemned asked after the executioner's axe.

"Myrddin Wyllt Emrys will not trouble you."

There was confidence, there was arrogance, and then there was using Merlin's full name like you were his father chastising him for farting at the banquet table.

Melehan did not know what to make of it, but he had seen enough of the High King to realise that - even should Merlin incinerate him where he stood the second he laid toe on Uther's land - it would still be a better option than denying an order from the man who insisted on being addressed by that long dead title, Brytenwalda: High King of Britain.

So, Melehan had gone to war.

He had seen little of the glory of the practice which his father had spoken thus far. The one battle worthy of its name - the confrontation with the fyrd a few days back - had been over before it had begun. There were myriad ways to defeat a cultivator, but none involved standing still in a shield wall whilst fireballs were thrown at you.

The entire invasion was based on the premise that Uther's armies would not be able to adapt quickly enough to this tactic and, of course, that Merlin did not take the field.

As a man who had developed clear notions of honour in his life, he found much of what he had witnessed on the road thus far pretty distasteful. And the least said about the murder of the chieftain's wife, the better.

But, for all that, here he was: standing in a bright purple crop circle, with the blood of a dragon on his fingertips and an unhinged paederast - Melehan did not let the ostentatious pillaging fool him - as a master.

"There is a hoard, my Lord. But, as I said, Vortigern's Dragon was a minor Spirit Beast. I doubt there will be anything to interest someone as powerful as you in there."

For a moment, he thought the flattery would work, but then the tongue licked out, and there was a gleam in Pæga's eyes. "By no means, wizard. There has been precious little loot thus far, and I have demands upon me. Minor Spirit Beast or not, there will certainly be treasures it will have acquired over its life. We will explore this hoard."

And at that moment, Melehan could finally lock down the presence of the Celt. Of course, as she was currently charging straight for them, bellowing an unusual war cry, it was not one of the more remarkable feats of magic he had ever achieved.

Pæga watched the approaching warrior with interest. "That Celt appears to be charging our entire army on her own."

"She does, my Lord."

"Is she shouting something?"

"I think so, but I know not what it means."

"Me either. I wonder who Frodo is?"