Dragon Business, The (26 page)

T
EAMWORK—THAT WAS THE
key. For all their grandiose attitudes, the independent legendary knights had not played well with others. By insisting on all the glory, they had ended up as individual, memorable failures rather than sharing the reward.

Cullin, Affonyl, and Reeger worked well together, though. While Dalbry lay unconscious, for his own good, they planned the fastest way to eliminate the monster.

Affonyl couldn’t wait to try out her explosive casks. If just one powder-filled clay pot had blown a hole through the solid stone wall of King Norrimun’s castle tower, then three whole casks filled with the mixture should be enough to turn the dragon into reptilian sausage meat.

“There may not be much of a trophy left to hang on a castle wall,” Cullin pointed out. Dalbry would have considered that the largest flaw in their plan.

“Doesn’t matter,” Reeger said. “We still have the spare crocodile heads we bought from Captain Ossio. One of them will convince Queen Faria.”

After Affonyl made long powder-dusted fuses for her casks of explosives, the three prepared to set off for the lair, leaving Sir Dalbry on the ground near the horses. With a twinge of remorse, Cullin adjusted the unconscious knight, gave him a lump of firewood for a pillow, and straightened his dragonskin cape.

Cullin felt guilty about knocking out his old friend, but it soothed his conscience to know that he was saving Dalbry’s life. In fact, he had reason to be upbeat. He had already rescued a damsel in distress, and would soon be a genuine dragon slayer (or at least a participant in a group dragon-slaying event). Maybe he could apply for a certificate.

He ran to catch up with Reeger and Affonyl, who were leading the mule away. The beast seemed uneasy, questioning the wisdom of these humans and their schemes.

When they arrived at the ominous lair, Reeger, Cullin, and Affonyl listened intently to the phlegmy rumble from inside. The dragon seemed to be sleeping but restless, perhaps suffering from indigestion because of the traitorous knight he had just eaten.

Reeger flicked his eyes from side to side. “That rustin’ thing in there already killed five brave knights, not to mention all the sheep, cattle, and peasants it devoured over the past week or so. It’s a menace to society.”

“That means it can’t still be hungry,” Affonyl said. “Right?”

The skittish mule flared its nostrils, but it was wise enough not to bray or call attention to itself.

Cullin and Affonyl each took one of the explosive casks from the pack saddle and tiptoed among the bones and ash. The debris of knightly victims lay all around: the dented shield of Sir Tremayne, part of Sir Hernon’s helmet, the remnants of Sir Artimo’s long and delicate blade (now drooping from a blast of heat), Sir Morgan’s miniature battle hatchet, and a frowning skull that bore the indisputable likeness of Sir Jems.

Loud snoring from within the cave indicated that the dragon was not inclined to lunge out at them.

Cullin and Affonyl crept to the side of the lair and positioned the first cask, then set a second one on the opposite side. Without even a whisper to each other, they rolled the fuse rope out behind them.

Cullin retrieved the third cask from the mule and picked his way up the rocks to the overhang above the mouth of the cave. He wedged it between two large boulders and tossed down the fuse rope. Affonyl caught it and scampered away to join it with the other fuses.

For his own part, Reeger tugged on the mule’s rope and dragged it forward. The stubborn animal did not like the change of scenery: the burned bones and half-devoured carcasses strewn on the ground provided ample evidence that this was no fit place for human or beast. The more Reeger tugged on the rope, the more the mule dug in its hooves and drew back its lips to show square teeth.

Reeger went behind the creature to smack it on the buttocks. Indignant, the mule stumbled forward enough that Reeger was able to wrap the rope around the sturdy pine trunk where Affonyl had been bound. The mule realized the trick and pulled against the rope, letting out a loud bray of terror. Startled by the noise, Reeger dashed to shelter in the forest and turned back to watch. Affonyl joined him, pulling the fuses along with her.

The mule stood in full view of the dragon’s grotto. “I’m fairly sure that mule is a virgin, so it’ll make an appropriate sacrifice,” Reeger said. “If not, it’s still good, fresh meat. How can a dragon resist?”

The mule let out an even more extravagant braying that sounded like a rusty hinge, then regretted the loud sound it had made.

With all the noise and commotion outside, the dragon let out an explosive roar of its own. Awake and alert, it began to move.

Pain rumbled like thunder in the back of his head, and Sir Dalbry groaned and sat up. His skull throbbed worse than his hangover after the one and only time he had tried to beat Reeger in a drinking game (and lost). But he was a knight, and he had a quest. He would never let a mere splitting headache divert him from it.

He didn’t remember how he’d gotten on the ground, and wondered if he’d been attacked. Maybe an ogre had smashed him on the head with a spiked club . . . but he looked around the empty camp and saw no ogres. Nor did he see Reeger, Cullin, or Affonyl. He was alone.

They had abandoned him—or maybe they’d been kidnapped by a goblin force! No, that didn’t sound right. His ears were ringing. His vision blurred, doubled, then focused again. He had trouble differentiating between memories and fictitious stories. It was hard to think.

Ah! Now he remembered the dragon and the other brave knights who had fallen. Yes, Sir Dalbry was the last surviving member of the chivalrous consortium. He looked down and saw broken, half-chewed straws on the ground. Yes, that was it. The responsibility fell to him.

The dragon was his to slay. He had the duty and the glory.

After he swayed to his feet, he caught his balance on a tree, looked at all the horses and Pony tied nearby. The animals had foraged the fresh greenery within reach of their ropes and seemed to be wondering where their owners’ priorities lay.

Brave Drizzle stared at him with questions in his large eyes, but Dalbry didn’t think his horse was right. He was supposed to have a white stallion, not this speckled gelding.
Lightning
. . . yes! That had been his real horse’s name! A valiant steed that had died defending him during another dragon attack.

He adjusted the scaly cloak on his shoulders. Yes . . . dragonskin. He had killed the monsters before, and he would do so again. Dalbry gripped the hilt of his sword, saw the gleaming black chips of hardened dragon blood that reminded him of his prior conquests.

He walked out of camp, stumbling through the underbrush, but kept his balance. It was hard to focus. When he realized he was heading in the wrong direction, he turned about and trudged off again. The knights had been at their camp for so long they’d actually worn a footpath to the monster’s lair.

Dalbry drew a deep breath, stilled his nerves, and went to face the dragon.

Before the dragon could come after them, Affonyl tried to light the three joined fuses using a flint and steel. She made ten attempts, but couldn’t make the spark catch. As a former princess, she didn’t have much practice starting her own fires.

Reeger snatched the implements from her and lit the fuse. The flame began to burn along the rope, then separated among the three strands. The three sparks raced toward the trio of explosive casks.

Tied to the tree, the braying mule let out a racket loud enough to wake the dead, or at least wake a slumbering dragon. Deep within the shadows of the bone-strewn cave, bright reptilian eyes shone, and a flicker of flame snorted out as the monster worked its way forward to its next meal.

The fuses continued to burn toward the casks. Cullin scrambled down the rocks at the side of the cave to rejoin the others. Affonyl held her breath. Reeger was grinning.

The mule was not at all happy.

Suddenly another figure lurched out of the forest—Sir Dalbry in his armor with his sword raised, the reptilian cape flapping behind his shoulders. “Dragon, you have met your match!”

Dalbry went to the tree, swung his sword, and slashed the animal’s rope. Freed from the tether, the mule didn’t stop to thank the old knight, but galloped away into the forest, avoiding Reeger and Affonyl altogether.

With uncertain balance, Dalbry wove toward the open cave, sword held high. “Face me, monster, and I will cut off your head.”

Cullin waved his arms from the other side of the clearing. “Dalbry, get out of there!”

Simultaneously, Affonyl yelled, “Run—the fuse is almost to the kegs.
Run
!”

From within the cave, the dragon roared and thrust its head out.

The knight looked up at them in surprise, then turned toward the dragon, ignoring his noisy companions.

“Crotchrust!
Somebody
has to move.” Reeger ran faster than seemed possible with his cockeyed gait. He slammed into Sir Dalbry and drove the old knight away from the cave opening just as all three casks detonated. Smoke, fire, shrapnel, and broken rocks flew in all directions.

The explosion caught Dalbry and Reeger and flung them away. The two lay on the ground among the skeletal fragments, looking like the poignant discarded rag dolls Reeger often placed in his staged scenarios.

T
HINKING NOTHING OF
their own safety, Cullin and Affonyl scrambled out of the shelter of the trees to where the men sprawled unmoving. Reeger and Dalbry had been thrown by the blast and now lay singed and bruised among the broken skeletons of the dragon’s other victims.

From where it had bolted, the rescued mule let out a loud bray, either to taunt them for their treachery or to reassure Cullin that it did not need further saving.

Tangled as if in some medieval dragon-slayer wrestling match, Dalbry and Reeger both groaned. While Affonyl bent over the two to check their injuries, Cullin cast an anxious glance at the dark overhang of the dragon’s lair.

The explosions had driven the beast back into its cave, but Cullin could hear the huge creature stirring, claws and scales scraping on stone as it moved. Maybe it was injured. Maybe it was angry. Maybe it was hungry. Too many maybes.

“We have to move them,” he said. “Right now!”

Affonyl said, “In my bag of necessary items, I have salves, unguents, and assorted good drugs we can use. Maybe the mule will help us get them to camp.”

From the shelter of the forest, the mule brayed to indicate that there was little chance of that happening.

Cullin got his hands under Reeger’s arms and tried to lift him. “You take Sir Dalbry. I’ll drag Reeger.”

As Cullin hauled his friend across the rough ground, Reeger thrashed in pain. The young man tried to reassure him. “There’s a first-aid kit back at camp—fresh leeches and everything—but you’ll have to endure for the time being. Sorry.”

Reeger woke enough to sway to his feet and pull away from Cullin. “Bloodrust and battlerot, my arm’s broken! Pulling on it doesn’t help.”

Affonyl managed to get Sir Dalbry to his feet, and they made their way through the trees, weaving, crashing, staggering—away from the dragon.

They finally arrived back in camp without any mishap other than the mishaps they had already encountered. While a groaning Reeger sat on a tree stump and nursed his arm, Cullin and Affonyl worked to remove Sir Dalbry’s armor. He had been closest to th
e blast, and the former princess clucked her tongue when she saw his skin: some parts were blackened, others covered with red blisters. The older knight grunted, but endured the pain.

“I still don’t know what happened—it’s a blur,” Dalbry mumbled. “I appear to have been burned and blasted. Did the dragon get me?”

“No, it was an explosion of my own making,” Affonyl said. “Part of our plan to kill the dragon.”

“But that plan didn’t turn out as planned,” Cullin said.

“Plans usually don’t.” Dalbry touched his tender burned skin. “That’s going to leave a scar. I wish I could claim it came from dragon fire.” The beard on one side of his face had been singed away, and his cheeks looked an angry red.

“You can
say
that,” Cullin said, trying to be helpful. “It’s closer to the truth than a lot of our stories.”

Affonyl rummaged among her necessary items, pulled out several packets. “These will help, Sir Dalbry.”

Reeger grumbled, “Rust! What about my arm? I think Cullin dislocated it when he dragged me.”

“On the contrary, he set the broken bone. You should be thankful.”

“It still hurts.”

She handed one of her packets to Reeger. “Take this—one of my best potions.”

Reeger held the packet with his good hand, sniffed it. “Isn’t a potion supposed to be in liquid form?”

“This is the extra-strength version, just for you.”

Beyond arguing, he dumped the powder into his mouth, grimaced, and swallowed. “Tastes like bone dust.”

Cullin wondered whether Reeger had ever consumed bone dust before and decided he didn’t want to know.

“Bone dust is one of the ingredients,” Affonyl said. “And the highest quality guano, plus a good dose of poppy milk.”

“Ah.” Reeger seemed content—more content by the minute, in fact, as the drugs began to work. Affonyl mixed a second batch of the powder and gave it to Sir Dalbry, who at first resisted but relented when she continued to poke and prod his burned skin.

Affonyl mixed salves to treat the burns, and Cullin assisted by watching as intently as possible. As she slathered creams on the reddest patches, he asked, “Where did you get your medical training?”

She didn’t look up from her work. “I read my natural history books and dissected a few frogs. From that solid foundation, it was simple extrapolation to a medical degree.”

Cullin grew more impressed with Affonyl the more he got to know her.

Reeger began to giggle, sounding loopy. He held up his broken arm as Affonyl bound it with trimmed sticks, tightening the rags so that the makeshift cast and sling held the broken bone in place.

Reeger found his splinted forearm amusing. “Rust! Now Cullin’s going to have to do the grave harvesting and latrine refurbishing by himself.”

Cullin humored him. “By the time that arm heals, I’ll be even better than you.”

Reeger snorted and spat. “Nobody’s better at latrines than I am.”

Reassured that his friends were not mortally wounded—although out of commission—Cullin began to feel more troubled. The tension had been building for some time as each knight faced his duty and went out on an unsuccessful dragon-slaying attempt.

Cullin had gotten to know each member of the consortium of knights, knew their different personalities, and realized that not one of them had ever questioned the need to kill the monster. Even Tremayne, who had turned treacherous, never lost sight of what he was required to do. A quest was a quest. The knights had varying tactics, but a fundamental underpinning of honor, just as Sir Dalbry said.

Apart from any sensible reason, with all of his comrades killed and very little chance of success—or even survival—Sir Dalbry had still dragged himself out to slay the dragon or die trying.

Cullin couldn’t understand it. He had spent so much of his life as an outcast, amused by scams, feeling superior, using people’s gullibility against them. But he had seen something strange on Dalbry’s face as he strode out to almost certain death. Even Reeger had done an unexpected brave thing, rushing into danger in the face of the imminent explosion—and right in front of the dragon’s lair.

Cullin looked at Reeger now, who seemed blissfully happy after his painkilling potion. When it wore off, he would probably question what he had done—or at least he’d say so out loud. But Reeger had instinctively known when he needed to be brave and selfless.

The consortium of chivalrous knights had come to Faria’s queendom and offered their services—not as a scam, but as a sincere gesture. When going to face the dragon, Sir Hernon had been brave, but—being first—he might have underestimated the danger. Not so for Sir Morgan, Sir Artimo, or Sir Jems. Despite knowing the murderous ferocity of the dragon, they had tried to do their duty.

Faria’s chest of treasure would have been a substantial reward, but Cullin didn’t think gold mattered much to those knights. And the prospect of winning a moderately beautiful princess couldn’t explain it either.

Those brave people had dared so much. Sir Dalbry and even Reeger were in no condition for further dragon-slaying attempts—and the monster was still in need of slaying.

Cullin realized with a heavy heart and a queasy stomach that the duty fell to him now. He had to finish the job, become a real dragon slayer, instead of just a would-be apprentice.

When the burned knight was resting comfortably and Reeger sat grinning and humming to himself, Cullin picked up Sir Dalbry’s famed sword with its obsidian-decorated hilt. “My turn,” he said, and avoided looking at Affonyl. “After all it’s been through, the dragon should be slayable by now.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Squirrel, what are you talking about?”

“I have a duty to do, for honor.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve listened to too many stories. Don’t be a fool.”

“I’ll be a
knight
—there’s a difference. Somebody has to promulgate the mystique of knighthood. Our reputation is at stake. Besides, there’s a fairly substantial reward.”

“Reward? You mean Queen Faria’s daughter? You’re willing to risk your life to marry Princess Minima?”

“Not exactly the princess I wanted, but that’s the luck of the draw.” For this brave deed, Cullin wanted to be as prepared as possible. He had already traded his practice sword in favor of Dalbry’s more impressive blade. Next, he picked up the older knight’s chain mail. “Will you help me don this?”

“No.” He thought Affonyl was just being petulant, but she added, “All that metal covering your body won’t protect you if the dragon blasts you with flame. The armor will only slow you down. Better that you stay unencumbered and nimble.”

Cullin realized that made sense. “Thanks. Any other advice?”

“Don’t go face the dragon in the first place.”

“All right. Any
useful
advice?”

She went back to her sack to remove more packets of chemicals and herbs, which she mixed in a large pot; when it smelled right to her, she added mud and water to create an oozing mess. After letting it cool, she dipped her hands into the goop and slathered it over Cullin. “This salve is flame resistant. It won’t protect you from full-fledged incineration, but it might stop a blister or two. I wouldn’t want you to ruin your pretty face.”

He felt himself grinning. “You think my face is pretty?”

“I think it’ll be less pretty if it’s burned.” He couldn’t argue with that. She heaved an angry sigh. “If you’re going to insist on this foolishness, then I want you to have the best chance possible.”

Cullin searched among Sir Dalbry’s possessions in Drizzle’s saddlebags and withdrew a small item that was unlikely to be effective, but might serve as a talisman. “I’m taking the magic beans as well.”

“It can’t hurt.” Then she leaned close and gave him a quick kiss. Cullin felt giddy, but before he could respond, she hurried to tend to Reeger, who began chuckling in delirious shock. Affonyl wouldn’t look back at him.

Cullin set off, thinking more about the former princess than about the monstrous dragon he was about to face.