Dragon Slayer Page #2

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GALEN:

I hate books. I hate drill. I want a

real task.

ULRICH:

There's no time now. When I'm gone,

half the powers in the universe will

vanish with me. And what's the use

of a few lingering skills if they're

left in the hands of a child?

(pause)

Listen!

GALEN:

I don't hear anything.

Ulrich gauges the young man standing before him and makes a

decision. Reaching under his cloak he lifts off a fine silver

chain with an amulet dangling from it. He drapes it around

Galen's neck.

ULRICH:

Here, wear this.

Galen instinctively wraps his hand around the jewel. He c*cks

an ear.

GALEN:

Voices, singing on the road.

He hastens forward to a promontory, eager to have a look.

Ulrich does not follow. Instead, doffing his cloak, he whirls

it before him, where it magically floats a few feet off the

ground. Awkwardly, the old man clambers aboard.

GALEN:

I don't see anything.

He turns back, but the wizard is gone. A shadow falls over

him. He looks up. There, two hundred feet above the tree

tops his master is soaring on the wind.

AIRBORNE:

The old conjurer squints into the distance. Miles away and

far below a company of drab walkers winds along the margins

of the forest. They are singing a mournful round.

GALEN:

He gawks skyward. Suddenly, the old man leans down and

addresses him.

ULRICH:

(a shout)

We have visitors!

CUT TO:

ROTUNDA - NIGHT

Clustering together in the center of a wide reception hall

is a contingent of weary peasants, awkward amidst the dusty

rugs, drapes and heavy furniture. Their leader is a fineboned

youth, not yet twenty. Like the others, he is uneasy; his

name is Valerian. Hodge enters and sets a tray of mead before

them. He leaves without a word. The visitors stare glumly at

the refreshment, but are too timorous to go near it.

CONJURING ROOM:

Galen helps Ulrich prepare for the audience. The sorcerer

peers at himself in a full-length mirror, adjusting the hem

of a black robe.

ULRICH:

Looks forbidding enough, don't you

think?

GALEN:

Here are your sticks.

ULRICH:

No -- they'll think me infirm. You

know, Balisarius wore this whenever

he changed lead into gold. He could

really do that, you know. I never

could. Too bad -- you'd stand to

inherit some real wealth.

GALEN:

You're in a morbid frame of mind.

What's all this about dying? You

don't even look sick.

ULRICH:

(tying on a sash)

You still wearing that amulet?

(Galen nods)

Good. Don't lose it. It still belongs

to me.

He backs away from the mirror and fits a silver coronet onto

his head.

ULRICH:

Now, adeptus minor, get yourself a

handful of that sulphurous ash over

there...

The sorcerer starts down a circular stone staircase.

THE ROTUNDA:

The visitors watch warily as a door swings open and Galen

makes his entrance, his face expressionless and hands pressed

together. He looks rather young to be the famous Ulrich.

Galen allows a moment to go by, then throws his arms wide.

Ka-whump! and Ulrich appears in the doorway in a smoky

fireball. Alarmed, the visitors retreat.

ULRICH:

Nunc habeus lux!

Pffst! around the room candles flare in their niches.

ULRICH:

Et calor!

In the fireplace, the birch logs are suddenly ablaze. Ulrich

totters to the hearth and extends long bony fingers toward

the warmth.

ULRICH:

Welcome to Cragganmore. I am Ulrich.

Which one of you calls himself

Valerian?

The travelers are suitably dazzled by the magician's

performance. The young leader of the party screws up his

courage and speaks.

VALERIAN:

That would be me. We are here on

behalf...

ULRICH:

I know why you're here. You're a

delegation from Urland, from beyond

Dalvatia. Let's see the artifacts.

The travelers exchange nervous glances. Valerian motions to

one of his companions. The man steps forward and hands over

a leather pouch. One by one, Valerian places the contents on

the table for Ulrich's inspection.

VALERIAN:

A bone. Scorched. A rock, fire-

blackened.

(pause)

Scales.

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