Chapter 31—Bell Tower

With a scream, Lancelot tumbled through the sky, soaring away from the dragon and free falling to his death. He could not tell up from down, the roofs of the buildings of Camelot spinning dizzily beneath him. A flash of white caught his eye, and he twisted in midair to keep the vision in sight. The jagged peaks of weather vanes and spires rushed toward him, promising a quick death impaled on a spike, but he focused his eyes on the sheet of white below. A canopy stretched from the side of a building out into a street teeming with people. The canvas stretched below him and with a thud he struck the stretched fabric and bounced high into the air and over into the crowd. He landed with a thud on the back of a man carrying a bundle of straw. The force of the impact of his body carried both men into a rolling tumble that toppled pedestrians like dominoes in the street. Rolling over and over, Lancelot finally came to a halt wedged under the table of an apple seller. The leg crumpled, and the apples fell bouncing onto the road rolling every which way.

“Hey there, now, look what you have done!” yelled the merchant, shaking his heavy fist and moving faster than his bulk should have allowed to peer under the collapsed table at who was underneath it. His eyes fell on the tunic of a knight and his tone softened with recognition. “Lancelot! Are you hurt?” The man knelt beside Lancelot, who stirred groggily. “Help move this table,” he shouted to the crowd that had gathered. Two men lifted the table and pulled it off of Lancelot.

Lancelot’s eyes opened, and he peered up into the faces leaning over him. He attempted to sit up and groaned when his left arm moved. “I think my shoulder is dislocated,” he ground out, through clenched teeth.

The merchant ran his hands over the shoulder and nodded confirmation. “It sure is. I can pop it back into place if you wish. It will hurt, but I have done it before.”

“Get on with it,” said Lancelot.

The man reached around to the back side of Lancelot’s shoulder with his right hand then placed the left on top. “I am going to lean on your shoulder to push it back into place. Ready?”

“Do it.” Lancelot clenched his teeth together to brace himself for what must be done.

The man leaned forward. With a hard shove bearing all his weight, he pushed the shoulder back into place. Lancelot’s eyes rolled and he gasped with the pain. The man eased him back onto his back. “Rest for a moment and recover.” Turning to a young boy in the crowd he said, “Daniel, run and fetch a sling from inside the store. Hurry. Left cupboard.” The boy turned and ran into the dark entrance, appearing a few minutes later with several lengths of cloth, which he dropped at the man’s side. “If you can sit up, Lancelot, I will bind this shoulder for you.” He helped Lancelot to a sitting position and then eased Lancelot’s tunic and shirt off, swiftly binding the shoulder and then helped him get dressed.

Lancelot lurched to his feet, swaying for a moment while his eyes searched the skies for signs of the dragon. “Did you see where it went? The dragon?” asked Lancelot. He gently rotated the rest of his limbs checking for damage. Other than the left shoulder, he had been fortunate. At least his sword arm was still in good shape. “I must find it!”

The merchant shrugged his shoulders. “I only saw you falling from the sky. What were you doing up there?”

“I was falling from the sky,” said Lancelot dryly. “I must go. Thank you for your aid. You,” he said, pointing at a man leading a horse. “I am taking your horse. You may collect it at the castle stables tomorrow.” Lancelot grabbed the reins, placed his right foot in the stirrup, and awkwardly mounted. As soon as he was settled in the saddle, he dug in his heels and the horse lurched into motion. He galloped down the street, hooves ringing on the cobblestone. His bound arm sent jolts of pain up into his shoulder, but he ignored it. Arthur’s life was a stake and he had no time to waste on his own personal injuries.

Lancelot had an idea of where the dragon had been headed. He only hoped he was right. He galloped down the curving street. A tailor shop and a bakery flashed by on either side, but his focus was clearing a path for his racing mount. Hearing the clattering of hooves moving swiftly, the people in the street edged over to the side to allow him to pass, rather than be trampled by the racing horse. Up ahead, the spires of the cathedral shone, lit by the late day sun. The sky behind was dark with clouds. The sky promised rain before dark.

Suddenly, Lancelot heard screams up ahead. He set his heels to the flanks of his horse, urging more speed. They rounded a corner into the square that led to the main entrance of the church. There, in the square crouched over a dozen knights with arrows nocked. As one, they drew back on their bows and released. The hail of projectiles soared through the air to bounce harmlessly off the ribcage of the bone dragon. It sat on the top of a shining dome, roaring in anger. Arthur squirmed in its bony grip, trying to free himself. Lancelot reined in his mount, frowning. Arrows would do no good. The horse danced with nerves, sensing his tension. The dragon roared again and his horse shied. Lancelot slipped his feet clear of the stirrups and dropped to the ground with a sharp groan, then dropped the reins. He had no illusions that the horse would stay and sure enough, it bolted away back the way they had come.

From across the public square, a knight ran an oil-soaked torch clenched in his fist. The knights traded their traditional arrows for ones that were bound in oil-soaked cloth. As the knight ran past, he lit each of their brands with his own. Once he was clear, they lifted their arrows once more and fired at the dragon.

Annoyed, the dragon snapped at the flaming arrows, which once again proved ineffective against it. Something niggled, tickling Lancelot’s memory. What was it? There was something about the dragon that had surprised him. Lancelot searched his memory, but the teasing thought stayed just out of reach. It had shown a weakness, that was it, but he was damned if he could remember what it had been. Furious with himself, he ran over to the knights and tapped two of them on the shoulder and then motioned for them to follow him. Sir Percival and Sir Gawain dropped into step behind him, running for the cathedral. Up the front stairs they raced, pulling open the broad doors. Friar Antonio glanced up at their entrance, frowning at the swords.

“The bell tower! Take us to the steps that lead to the bell tower!” Lancelot grabbed him by his white robe and pushed him in the direction of the interior of the castle.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Friar Antonio.

“Arthur is about to die unless we can rescue him. The bone dragon has him. Now show us!” shouted Lancelot. The four of them raced across the wide greeting hall and then into one of the many hallways that exited the chamber, following the stout friar’s flapping brown robes. They ran down increasingly narrowing corridors until they reached the entrance to a curving, stone staircase. Lancelot threw himself in front of the friar, bounding up the stairs two at a time, climbing the spiral as swiftly as he could. Four sets of corridors flashed past as he dashed up the steep staircase as fast as he could.

Panting and gulping air, Lancelot stumbled out of the last archway as he gained the top. The others spilled out behind him into a vast chamber. A series of brass bells in various sizes hung from a stout beam pocketed in the rounded tower’s stone walls. Thick ropes ran up and over and through a pulley system, and then disappeared down a large hole cut into the stone floor. He stumbled over to the arched opening in the wall then leaned out to peer down at the courtyard below. The bone dragon clung to the dome a few feet below him, belching flame at the knights. In the short time since he had left them, they had been forced to the very edges of the plaza and sheltered in the doorways of buildings. One knight lay sprawled on his back on the cobblestones and did not move. Lancelot looked down the wall of the turret. A short sloping roof of tile ended in a gargoyle in the shape of a lion, crouched on all fours at the edge. Mouth stretched wide in a permanent scream, the gargoyle waited for the storm brewing, to come to life.

Lancelot frowned. Something about the rain tickled his memory. His mouth opened as realization dawned. He spun around and grabbed the friar’s tunic front, leaning into the man. “Where can we find water? Hurry, man, speak up!”

The friar’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat. Red of face and winded, he pointed to a couple of barrels on the other side of the chamber. “There is water there. It is stored here in case of a lightning strike in the tower to fight fires.” Lancelot let go of his tunic and ran over to the barrel. It stood as tall as he, and broad enough in circumference that it would take two men to encircle it with their arms. A spigot had been twisted into the front with a clever lever to turn, to release the barrel’s contents. His eyes searched the tower, then came to rest on a handful of buckets lining one wall. He snatched three up and hurried back, handing one to the friar and two waiting knights.

“What is your plan, Lancelot?” asked Gawain. He stood with his sword drawn, watching the staircase as though afraid of pursuit.

“Listen. When Arthur was snatched, so was I. Before we were drawn out the window, the dragon’s wing spilled a pitcher of water. When the water touched it, it screamed. I think that it can be wounded by water.” Lancelot shoved the buckets into their hands. “You must draw this water from the barrels and feed the gargoyle out on the rooftop. We will only get one chance to hurt it. I don’t even know if it will hurt it. But maybe it will drop Arthur with the distraction. Wait for my signal below. I am going to go back down and get in a position to help Arthur.”

“Where are you going to be?” asked Percival with a rolling of his massive shoulders. He stretched with readiness, and a desire to see action, then grimaced at the bucket in his hand.

“See that wagon down there with the hay piled in the back? I am going to bring it underneath the dragon, just in case it releases Arthur. It’s the best I can do to reach him.” At that moment, Arthur’s scream pierced the silence. They ran to the window to see the dragon shaking him in her claw. “Remember to watch for my signal,” Lancelot shouted as he dashed for the staircase. He slid down them as fast as his feet could carry him, reaching the base in record time and then he bolted down the side hallway toward the kitchen area, which he knew led to the rear courtyard and the waiting hay cart. He pushed his way through the people crowding the corridor, whispering fearfully of a fire-breathing monster outside the abbey. Lancelot skidded to a stop then shoved open the door to the courtyard.

As he hurried down the steps, flames roared on his heels. He ducked behind a stone column as fire rained down on him. A tree not ten spans away burst into flame crackling with an all-consuming urgency. Peering cautiously around the side, he saw the dragon moving into a better position from which to roast him alive. Each time the dragon moved, Arthur gasped out a grunt of pain. He was clasped between the fore-claw and the digit next to it. The dragon squeezed Arthur mercilessly. Arthur’s face was bloodied, and it appeared his breathing was constricted as his face had a purplish hue.

Lancelot frantically scanned the courtyard then settled on a dash toward the cart. The horse reared in panic at the flames and pulled frantically at the reins tying it to the hitch. Lancelot took a deep breath and then ran for the cart, sword in hand. He reached the horse a split second before the flames, hacking through the leads with his sword and hauling himself up onto the horse’s back. He dug in his heels and horse and cart shot out across the yard, toward the lurching dragon. Lancelot waved his hands frantically at the bell tower, signaling them to begin their attack.

With a gurgling whoosh, the gargoyle belched a stream of water which fell in an expanding waterfall down onto the back of the bone dragon.

The effect was instantaneous. Hissing steam rose from the bones. With a furious cry, the dragon launched itself into the air once more, dragging Arthur along in its claws. But it was hurt. The dragon stumbled in midair, its flight erratic as it tried to gain altitude. The dragon swept up into the air and tumbled toward the wall that surrounded Camelot, Arthur hanging limp as a rag doll in the dragon’s bony clutch.

With a ragged curse, Lancelot dug his heels into the sides of the horse and it leapt into a dead run, only too eager to get away from the flaming courtyard. Head down, he urged the horse to faster speeds, the cart lurching along behind them in their wake, as the dragon sailed over the stone walls hugging Camelot’s main gate and disappeared from view.