Authors: Chris Jags
For a moment, he teetered on the edge of a rocky precipice. A
path snaked off downhill to his right; he saw the light of bonfires, far below,
signifying the base camp. In the distance, crowding the dark shimmer of
the kingdom’s largest lake, he could make out the twinkling lights of the
capital city of Vingate. Seeing these lights and reaching them were two
very different matters.
Behind him, the dragon screamed in fury. Pounding the cave
floor with its talons - for all the world as though it were throwing a temper
tantrum - it swiveled its vast bulk toward the cave mouth, arachnid eyes bright
with wrath. Spotting its elusive prey, it lunged forward, rivulets of
silver drool trailing like streamers from between its teeth. Skulls,
helmets, and skulls in helmets clattered into the shadows as the beast plowed
through them, snorting and bellowing like a thousand stampeding oxen.
Simon’s breath hitched as he realized that he wouldn’t reach the
relative safety of the path in time. Time slowed as he stared at
onrushing death. He thought of the farm, of his father, and inexplicably of
Adelaide, their patchy old cow. He thought about how desperately he
didn’t want to die, now that death was a certainty. Although it seemed a
likely time to shriek his lungs bloody – terror enveloped him like a shroud
woven from searing fire and glacial ice - he only sighed.
The dragon screeched to a halt, spraying bone, blades and armor in a
tidal wave before it. Simon blinked in surprise. The dragon looked
astonished, too, and maybe a little fearful. It coughed, belched, and sat
down on its haunches, its vast armor-plated underbelly completely obscuring its
hind feet. For a stretching moment it stared at Simon, and Simon stared
blankly back. Then it hiccupped and collapsed.
Silence fell. No doubt the hopefuls in the camp below thought
Simon was finally dissolving in stomach acid. Simon, however, was pretty
sure – almost positive, in fact – that the dragon was dead. There was
always a chance that it was
playing
dead, but what reason would it have
for such a charade? He’d been trapped between the beast and a fatal fall;
it had won the contest and there had been no need for subterfuge. No,
he’d seen plenty of dead animals in his day, and the dragon was no longer
breathing.
Edging away from the cliff, Simon considered his options.
Would anyone believe that the great beast, overstuffed and overexerted, angered
beyond reason, had succumbed to a heart attack? If they did, would they
deny Simon his reward, instead attributing the creature’s death to natural
causes?
Very probably
, he decided. It was
time, then, to carve himself a legend.
Approaching the corpse cautiously, just in case, he poked at it
carefully with his boot. Glazed eyes gazed blankly at nothing. The
beast was truly dead. Kneeling, Simon forced his rusty old blade between
two overlapping scales in its neck and leaned on it with all his weight.
This accomplished, he couldn’t resist working it around a bit, widening
the wound. When at length he retrieved it, burning blood sizzled on the
metal and spilled sluggishly from the wound.
“Well,” he said aloud, kicking the dragon again, square in the
jaw. “That’s that.”
Unable to believe his luck, he picked his way carefully
downhill. The dark path was treacherous, with patches of scree in places,
twisted roots arching over the trail in others. He descended with the
greatest care. It wouldn’t do to fall to his death now, not before he
could claim his prize. He didn’t want to die as stupidly as the dragon.
His mind awhirl with possibilities, Simon wound his way down to the
base camp. It was important to announce his victory in the presence of
the king’s men, or chance having his throat cut by some opportunistic
adventurer hoping to claim the prize for himself. Thankfully, no one was
allowed on the mountain without the permission of the soldiers, who waited
several hours following each attempt before permitting the next would-be
contestant access to the trail. No one had ever staggered back, but the
courtesy was nonetheless observed.
By the time Simon reached the torchlit checkpoint, the dragon’s
blood had eaten clean through his blade in patches. The guards gaped in
unflattering astonishment as he held the weapon out to them for
inspection. None of them seemed eager to touch it.
“It’s dead,” Simon said. He’d been practicing what he wanted
to say all the way downslope, but faced with discouraging incredulity he drew a
blank. When the history books were written, no doubt the scribes would
assign him a more inspiring and quotable line.
The guards, neither of them significantly older than Simon,
continued to exchange disbelieving looks long past the threshold of
discourtesy. The taller and more fully-bearded of the two momentarily
forgot he was wearing a helmet in his attempt to scratch his head. His
companion, a tow-headed lad - named Rowland if Simon recalled correctly – was
the first to break the uncomfortable silence.
“You killed it,” he managed, plucking at his negligible chin
hairs. “
You
.”
“See for yourself.” Simon affected nonchalance and made to push past
them, as the heroes of ancient tales would certainly have done, while onlookers
huddled and whispered in awe.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Rowland clamped a hand on Simon’s
shoulder. “You just take a seat. We have to verify your…” He
smirked unpleasantly. “
Story.
”
“The King, he don’t take kindly to liars and cheats,” the big man
added as Simon cast about for the invisible seat he was supposed to take.
There wasn’t one, so he settled himself on a rock instead. Perhaps his
legend would mention how nonchalantly he’d sauntered into camp.
Following a heated disagreement about who should make the ascent to
face a potentially very pissed-off dragon, the taller man – Brannock - pulled
rank and ordered Rowland on his way. Refusing to carry a torch in
case it attracted the dragon’s attention, the young guard disappeared grumbling
into the darkness. Simon resigned himself to spending the next two hours
in the company of his large, dull-witted companion.
“He better find what you say he’ll find,” Brannock growled, “Or
it’ll be the worse for you. And for him,” he added thoughtfully.
“I could use a drink,” Simon suggested hopefully. His nerves
still jangled about like puppets being manhandled by a hyperactive madman.
“You could use a cuff upside the head,” Brannock returned. Possibly
he labored under the misapprehension that he was amusing, because his teeth
gleamed in the torchlight. Simon made a wry face and went back to sitting
quietly.
Rowland took his time. By the time the young guardsman had
returned, other men had joined them at the checkpoint: ambitious peasants like
Simon, wondering what the hold-up was.
“It’s past time I was on my way up to kill that wretched thing,” one
square, weatherworn block of a man declared, his voice like a stone being
ground into gravel. Simon had no difficulty in recognizing him as Lars
Tovoch, one of the men who’d tormented him earlier, shoving him about and
scoffing at his useless old sword.
“Apparently,” Brannock answered, with heavy emphasis, “The beast’s
cold. The lad here did for it.” His heavy brow furrowed as though
the enormity of the claim had just sunk in. “So you just sit tight while
we ver… veri… while we get to the bottom of things.”
Hands planted on hips, Tovoch burst out laughing. “This
teat-suckling lad? Are you having me on? This straggling weed
killed the dragon? Without so much as a stitch of armor? Without a
sword which…” the man paused, frowning, as Simon held up his blade for
inspection. There was little doubt that it was dragon’s blood which had
devoured the metal, as it still fizzed and bubbled quietly in patches.
“I killed it,” said Simon.
“Ridiculous,” Tovoch sneered, but his manner was now markedly less
assured. He gestured to the men who’d accompanied him. “Let’s go
lads. Once they’ve cleared up this nonsense we’ll have our go at the
beast.” He grinned at Simon. “Lying to the King still costs you
your tongue, does it not? And lying to the King through his
men
is
no different, in principle. If I were you, I’d get used to talking
ike
ihh
.” He mimicked what he clearly thought a tongue-deprived man would sound
like.
“If I were
you
,” Simon answered calmly, “I’d get used to the
idea of going back to slopping your pigs, because the princess will never be
yours.”
Tovoch tensed. A small vein pulsed in his forehead; for a
moment Simon thought he was going to lurch forward and throttle him.
Indeed, if Brannock’s hand hadn’t stolen toward his sword, blood would almost
certainly have been shed. Instead, with a fixed and wrathful grin, Tovoch
executed a rudely dismissive gesture and stumped off.
It was no small thing to crush a man’s ambitions, Simon reflected,
but in this case he thought he’d rather enjoyed it. His night only
improved when Rowland returned with the astonishing news that Simon had indeed
done the impossible, the unthinkable, and defeated a nightmare which had
claimed the lives of hundreds of people, many of whom were trained
soldiers. Simon relished each and every etched line of astonishment on
Brannock’s face; Tovoch’s even more so as the announcement was made to the
camp. He thought he was probably lucky that there was a strong guard
presence at the camp, or he might have found himself with a new smile a bit
lower than his chin.
Rowland and Brannock bundled him into a carriage with much less pomp
and circumstance than was due a triumphant hero; the fleeting concern that even
the guardsmen might be inclined to truss him up and dump in the lake rather
than allow him to sully their petulant princess with his peasant hands crossed
his mind. But the die was cast: whether his night ended as fodder
for fishes, or the next day dawned on a vista of wealth and luxury, Simon would
never return to the simple life of a peasant ever again.
The interior of the royal palace in Vingate was less impressive than
Simon might have hoped. Yes, it was large, but as Simon had recently
seen, large things just fell harder. Size alone didn’t impress him, and
the palace, though its antiquity leant it a certain solemnity, was hardly
awe-inspiring. The architecture was bluntly utilitarian and the stones
ill-fitted. Occasionally the walls bulged or leaned crazily so that he
felt uncomfortable in their shadow. Centuries of foot traffic had worn
smooth grooves in the corridors. Some of these flaws were disguised by
rugs and tapestries, in the same way that one might dress a corpse in their
finest to impress Vanyon, Lord of the Afterworld.
Having been kept under guard at a local inn for the remaining hours of
the night, Simon had, that morning, been fed and provided a clean and
presentable tunic for his audience with King Minus and his daughter. He
hadn’t been allowed to leave. No doubt the powers of the kingdom had
assembled to discuss his fate. Assuming that neither the king nor any of
his advisors were happy with the notion of marrying the princess off to a
peasant, Simon judged himself lucky to have survived the night. On the
bright side, the crooked old woman sent to fit him with his new tunic seemed to
feel that Tiera would, if nothing else, be favorably impressed with his
appearance.
“She fancies lads of your type,” the crone had croakily assured
him. “Eyes as clear and blue as the heavens! Hair like a griffin’s
golden mane, such a strong jawline…” She’d cupped his chin and trailed a finger
across his chest, causing him to wonder uncomfortably whether it was really the
princess she was speaking for.
Nonetheless, he’d gotten himself an audience. If the King was
prepared to acknowledge him publicly, he probably wasn’t planning to renege on
his word. Simon was beginning to believe he might become one of the very
few men to set foot inside of a royal bedchamber after all! The thought
terrified and excited him. What would his father say when he brought his
new bride to visit?
In his imagination he’d been honored with a triumphant parade
through the streets of Vingate. That hadn’t happened. Instead, his
escort had appeared eager to avoid attention. Simon had felt like a
common criminal as he was marched through nondescript back alleys and across
crumbling bridges which probably predated permanent human settlement in the
area.
The city entirely disappointed him. While impressive from a
distance, at close quarters the streets were unpleasantly dingy and drab.
The majority of the residences were uninspiringly blocky, functional without
regard to form. There was little personality to distinguish them from one
other. Only one edifice stood out: the colossal church of Vanyon Afterlord
reached impressively for the heavens with a crest of spires reminiscent of the
spine fins of an angry leviathan. Otherwise, Vingate was an unremarkable,
disagreeably dull sea of brick and stone.
Trumping its lackluster appearance was the city’s assault on the
olfactory senses. Few of the smells drifting through the alleyways were
flattering. Filth crusted the cobblestones, the alleys reeked of raw
sewage, and even the main thoroughfare was liberally spotted with garbage and
manure. The manmade channel which cut through the heart of the city was
dry save for sludgy pools of oily water, filled instead with debris and
refuse. Simon could barely believe people chose to live here, and in such
numbers. City folk were known to take on airs as though their poor rural
kin were somehow of lower social standing than themselves;
be that as it may
,
Simon thought,
at least
we don’t live unashamedly amidst such squalor
.
Few citizens were out and about when Simon was marched to the
palace; the city slumbered. This baffled Simon slightly; he, his father,
and his neighbors were up at the crack of dawn. Daylight was not to be
wasted in the rural areas of Cannevish. Here, the locals lazed about
apathetically, only tradespeople moving with purpose.
Had Simon not been so apprehensive, he might have studied the locals
in detail. As it was, only a handful intruded themselves upon his
attention: an enormously obese merchant, sporting a vast, curling
mustache, loudly berating his subordinates with no care for whom might overhear;
a small group of coiffed and manicured women – so different from country girls!
- gathered at an outdoor café to sip tea and chatter amongst themselves; and a
scholar, recognizable by his pointed mauve cap, who dozed in a doorway beside
an empty platter and a sign Simon couldn’t read but which was probably a plea
for charity. His own escort didn’t arouse curiosity or speculation.
News of the dragon’s death apparently hadn’t hit the capital yet.
Simon wondered if he’d be asked to pose with the great beast’s head,
which would surely be brought down from the mountaintop cave; he envisioned
cheering crowds and lovely young maidens clamoring for his attention.
He’d heard tales of the great square of Vingate, which was surely more colorful
and exciting than the discouragingly unpleasant streets to which he’d been thus
far exposed; perhaps the ceremony would take place there.
Lost in this fantasy, Simon paid little heed to the formalities
which took place at the palace guardhouse, or the expansive courtyard beyond the
portcullis, or even of the palace itself with its lofty towers, conical spires,
and battered old pennants, many of which needed to be replaced. He did
glance curiously at the stables, comparing the seemingly endless rows of stalls
housing magnificent chargers with the tumbledown shed he and his father used to
shelter Adelaide the cow and their single old plow horse, and was amazed that
all this might soon be his.
Two orderly columns of poles lined the route from the gatehouse to
the palace doors. At first, Simon assumed that they were topped with some
manner of sculpted ornamentation. As he drew closer, he realized with a
shock that what he’d taken to be sculptures were really human skulls mounted on
spears, perhaps two dozen of them in total. Clumps of hair and traces of
parchment skin still clung to some of them, fluttering in the light
breeze. As he passed between these grisly trophies, he noticed a placard
set at the base of each, inscribed with what he imagined to be the name of the
unfortunate individual who no longer inhabited his or her sun-bleached
cranium. Simon gulped down a queasy sense of unease. The dead
displayed here were a stark reminder of what befell those who offended King
Minus.
Escorted into the throne room by guards of a notably superior
quality to the likes of Rowland and Brannock, Simon fought his nerves and kept
his eyes pointed at the gold-trimmed crimson carpet. He knew better than
to look on the King directly without permission, particular with that path of
skulls keeping his manners in check. Minus was temperamental; his
daughter notoriously so. He allowed himself to be led placidly, aware of
flanking rows of soldiers and clusters of frilly noble folk, but keeping his
eyes averted from any person of importance. He’d expected the massive
chamber to be lit by torches; instead, enormous arched windows bathed the stone
with morning light. He’d never imagined so much glass.
The soothing cooing of doves eased his jangled nerves as he awaited
further instruction. Wafting through the air was the teasing scent of
something exceptionally savory; meat of a type he wasn’t familiar with,
seasoned with spices he and his father could never possibly have been able to
afford. And bread, freshly baked. His mouth began to water, his own
meagre breakfast suddenly entirely unfulfilling.
“Kneel,” one of his guards demanded. Feeling more like a
criminal than a hero, Simon did as instructed, his head still bowed.
“Unnecessary,” boomed a voice before and slightly above him.
He recognized the rumbling tone of King Minus and trembled slightly. He’d
seen the king before, of course, but only from a distance and only as one pair
of eyes in an assembly. Had he realized how unnerving being directly
addressed by the most powerful man in Cannevish would feel, he might have
remained at home to help his father with the crops. “Rise and look upon
me, slayer of dragons.”
Swallowing, Simon obeyed. King Minus wasn’t as outlandishly
tall as he remembered as a lad hopping up and down at the back of a crowd
hoping for a glimpse of the monarch. In compensation for his stature, his
throne towered above the hall floor so that Simon, standing, was at eye level
with the king’s boots. An aura of authority was sharply chiseled into
every line of Minus’ gaunt face. Encircled by a golden band, his brow
loomed like a gilded thundercloud, overlooking a nose long and hooked enough to
remind Simon of a vulture. A neatly sculpted beard jutted aggressively
below the wide, thin mouth which had sent many men and women to their
deaths. He sat stiff and straight, draped in golden robes trimmed with
ermine, and considered Simon with glittering shards of tempered steel.
Simon tried not to tremble, visibly at least.
Occupying a throne slightly lower in elevation to her father’s,
flanked by her handmaidens, was the beautiful Tiera. Simon didn’t dare to
look at her directly, but he was painfully aware of her proximity: the
soft tumble of white-blonde hair which spilled around her shoulders, the golden
gown clinging to her voluptuous figure, the delicate floral fragrance which
drifted about her. He could feel her eyes flicking sharply up and down
his form. Her mere presence made him feel clumsy and oafish.
“Your… your majesty,” he managed, focusing on the king. He was
able to maintain eye-contact only for a split second before returning to a
bashful examination of his shoes.
“Tell me your name, dragon slayer, and where you hail from.” Minus
demanded. Was that sarcasm drying his tone? Simon couldn’t be sure.
“Simon, Your Majesty. My home is the hamlet of Brand.”
“And your family name?”
Simon flinched. He knew his face was taking on the colors of
an overripe tomato. “I… don’t have one, Your Majesty.” Only persons
of consequence had won themselves family names. Simon was descended from
a long line of what King Minus would deem wholly inconsequential folk.
“Then your name is Simon Dragonslayer,” the king said. Simon’s
world whirled. Had he just been
awarded
a family name? Here
was a boon he had never considered. His father would likely burst with
pride.
“But come, Dragonslayer, we are bursting with curiosity as to how
you accomplished a feat which eluded many able men.”
Fighting to control a sudden stutter, Simon launched into his
narrative as truthfully as he could. Never once daring to acknowledge the
princess, he related his adventure to the king, humbly attributing his success
to the added mobility he’d enjoyed through not being able to afford a suit of
armor. He was even able to honestly describe how he’d plunged his sword
between the scales of the dragon’s neck. He’d decided, while fretting
about this moment in his bed at the inn, that it was critical to adhere as
closely to the truth as possible because Minus, as a judge of men, would
certainly be looking to catch him in a lie.
Upon concluding his faltering tale, Simon dared to glance at the
throne. Had his story passed inspection? Minus looked thoughtful,
rubbing his beard with finger and thumb, while several of the courtiers
whispered to one another behind gloved hands.
“Daughter,” the king said at length, without inflection. “This
is the man you are to marry.”
Simon’s mind reeled. He judged it safe to look at the
princess, his shifting gaze challenged by two points of blue ice.
Speculation struggled with disdain on her pale porcelain face; her lip curled
and one eyebrow arched expressively as she considered him. Her invitingly
v-necked gown was immaculate; comprised of multiple layers of the finest
foreign silk. Tiera radiated manufactured perfection. Simon couldn’t spot
a single hair out of place nor a blemish on her powdered skin.
“It is possible,” she said with affected disinterest, “That with
time we might make something of him.”
Some of the nobles muttered with astonishment behind their silken
gloves and peacock fans. Tiera’s words, cutting as they might sound, were
apparently high praise.
“Thank you, my lady.” Simon executed a clumsy bow. To
his considerable bewilderment, he realized that he found Tiera’s perfection
rather dull. His attention drifted instead to her handmaidens. The
redhead at Tiera’s right hand was of local stock, a freckled young woman clad
in a modest tunic. She seemed to Simon to be lacking spirit. Her
eyes, dull and listless, remained fixed upon the floor. He found himself
wondering how she might be treated out of sight of the court, and suspected he
didn’t want to know.
But the other girl, the one standing to the left of her
throne…! Simon felt his gaze drawn to her magnetically. Granted, he
didn’t leave his home village often, but he could say with certainty that he’d
never beheld anyone like her. Her hooded eyes, olive skin, and raven
tresses - collected in an unusually high-set ponytail - conspired to mark her
as a foreigner; possibly, Simon thought, from the eastern empires which lay far
beyond the Banshee’s Teeth. There was a delicacy about her features, as
though they could shattered like pottery; though if Simon was any judge, she
was no fragile maiden. Her slim, athletic form suggested endurance
and agility rare amongst the women of Cannevish, while an undeniable strength
lurked in those dark, vertiginous eyes.