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Granary itself was damaged.
    That night, the third since the dragon's coming, the king himself arrived from Morgenthorme. His horse, and those of his troop, had muffled hooves so that they made only the slightest echoing in the darkness on Swanscombe bridge. Only his presence could have drawn them to the Granary. In the light of the shaded torches he looked very old and tired, and he waited for perfect silence before he spoke.
    "I know of your misfortune," he said. "I am here because your misfortune is also Urland's."
    "Easy for you to say," muttered a man at the back. "You haven't lost a son!"
    "I am here," the king replied with dignity and forebearance; "I tell you again that this evil has befallen me and my land as surely as it has befallen you!" He gazed at the man who had spoken, and he waited for a response, but none came. "I have consulted my scholars, and they have delved for two days among the scrolls at Morgenthorme. They have told me that there are three ways, and three ways only, to deal with the monster Vermithrax." A hubbub arose at the mention of this name, and he waited for it to die down. "Yes, it is Vermithrax itself that has come to afflict Urland and Swanscombe. The first of these ways is by physical attack—the hero's way. There is always the chance, of course, that this will succeed, but the cost of failure is high, as you well know." He gestured ruefully at the damaged roof of the Granary, through which they could see stars. "Enraged, this dragon will destroy indiscriminately, will wreak limitless havoc. It is, as you know, the most vengeful of dragons. Therefore, I urge you not to choose this course. Send no more heroes. Prevent those who travel from afar to test their mettle against this beast. Swanscombe and Urland will pay for their failure and fail they surely will. This dragon is Vermithrax!" The king paused, waiting for the advice to sink home.
    "From the second way I would also dissuade you. Nevertheless, you should know of it, for the knowledge might one day prove useful. For that reason I have brought my foremost scholar, Giard, who, from long study, comprehends this course and will explain it."
    With this, a very old man hobbled forward and began to speak with obvious pleasure, frequently rubbing his hands together, hands as creased and dry as the parchments among which he had spent his life. "I must tell you," he began with a respectful bow to the monarch, "that this is not so much a course of action as a possibility. But to understand what might be done—not now but at some future time when the circumstances converge—" He chuckled softly, "—you must know what is written in the oldest tomes of the origins of dragons. Is it true? you will ask me, and I shall answer, I know not; I know only what is written.
    "It is written that dragons are not natural but result rather from the abuse of power, or from the careless use of power. It is written in the oldest scrolls, by one who claims to have heard it from another who saw it happen, that a sorcerer created dragons with a careless spell, and thereby loosed the great balefulness on the world; for, although they are androgynes, yet they breed. It is said further that all sorcerers share the guilt of that first one who erred, just as they share his charms, and that no honest sorcerer can therefore resist an appeal to confront a dragon. Our second option, therefore, is to search for a sorcerer."
    At this there arose a restiveness and grumbling in the hall. "A real sorcerer? . . . Where would we find one of those? . . . Fakes and charlatans enough, but a real sorcerer. . ."
    "I know. I know." Old Giard closed his eyes patiently and waved his pale hands. "They are rare, but nevertheless might still exist. Perhaps in the north. Perhaps in the Western Isles. ... It is unlikely, but if you search, you may rid Urland of the pestilence by that means." He was about to step down, but turned back to his audience, raising a finger. "One further thing. It is