‘As sharp as nothing else on this earth. It will cut through carbide steel as though it were a wet paper bag.’

‘Why is it called Exhorbitus?’

‘Probably because it was very expensive.’

He withdrew Exhorbitus from the floor and replaced it on the desk while I looked around. All over the walls were lurid paintings of Dragons showing how they attacked, how they drank, how they fed and the best way to sneak up on them.

I pointed to a large oil painting of an armoured Dragonslayer doing battle with a flame-breathing Dragon. It was quite graphic and very exciting. You could almost sense the heat and the danger, the sharpness of the talons and the clanking of armour.

‘You?’

The old man laughed.

‘Dear me, no! That painting is of Augustus of Delft doing battle with Janus during Mu’shad Waseed’s failed Dragon campaign. He was doing frightfully well right up until the moment he was sliced into eight more or less equal parts.’

He turned to me more seriously.

‘I’ve been the Dragonslayer for seventy-two years. I’ve not even seen a Dragon, let alone killed one. The last person foolish enough to actually launch an attack was Belinda of Froxfield just before the Mighty Shandar finalised the Dragonpact. Since then there has been only one living Dragonslayer down the ages – seven since Belinda – and none of us has ever so much as set foot inside a Dragonland. But that’s not to say we don’t know a thing or two about Dragons.’

He tapped his head.

‘All the knowledge since the first Dragonslayer went to do battle is up here. Every plan, every attack, every outcome, every failure. All this information has been here ready and waiting just in case. But it has never been needed! Not one Dragon has ever transgressed the Dragonpact. Not one single burnt village, one stolen cow or an eaten farmer. I’m sure you’ll agree that the Mighty Shandar has done a pretty good job.’

‘But that’s all changed.’

His face fell.

‘Indeed. Events, I fear, are soon to come to fruition. There is a prophecy in the air. It’s like cordite and paraffin. Can you smell it?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Must be the drains, then. The pre-cogs say I am to kill the last Dragon, and I will not falter in the face of my destiny. Shortly I am to do battle with Maltcassion, but I cannot do it alone. I need an apprentice. That person is you.’

‘But he is the last of the Dragons!’ I cried, feeling exasperated at Mr Spalding’s lack of interest. ‘Such a noble beast should not go the way of the Buzonji or the Lesser Shridloo—’