The Part About the Dragon was (Mostly) True

by Sean Gibson

  Once these pressing issues had been eloquently debated and resolved or tabled for further discussion, Alderman Wooddunny asked me to stand. “We now recognize Heloise Thebard, who has come to present us with a band of, ah, brave adventurers who have volunteered themselves to try to rid us of our dragon problem. Do I have that right, Miss, ah, Thebard?”

  “The. Bard. Not ‘Thebard,’” I replied.

  “Beg pardon?” replied the Alderman.

  “It’s ‘Heloise the Bard,’ not ‘Heloise Thebard.’”

  “Are you sure? I’m quite, ah, certain I was told your name is Heloise Thebard…”

  “It’s a description of a vocation, not a surname. I mean, is your given name ‘Alderman’?”

  “Actually, yes, it is. I realize that it’s a little bit like a shoemaker whose surname is ‘Cobbler,’ but, well, the, ah, truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, as they say, right? Prescient parents, I suppose.”

  “Wait,” I said, holding my hands up and looking around the room. “You are Alderman Alderman Wooddunny?” No one else looked confused or surprised by this revelation.

  The Alderman nodded. “Yes, Miss The Bard, I am.”

  “It’s not Miss The…you know what? Skip it. Never mind.” I shook my head. “Now, do you mind telling me why I’m here having this barely-a-conversation instead of sleeping?”

  “Well, ah, while we are grateful for your help in seeking out a hearty band of adventurers to slay the dragon that plagues our fair village—”

  “Town!” shouted someone (I’m not sure who—after a while, all Skendrickians start to look alike.)

  “Hang hie yer mongrel mooth, then, an’ away wi’ yuir blasapheemin’! Alderman Alderman’s a’ th’ purdium, an’ hay’ll spake et fit and has th’ right o’ it!” said a gnarly looking older man wearing overalls and a dirty hat. For reasons unexplained and unremarked upon by anyone else, he was holding a baby pig.

  “Thank you, Farmer Benton, I, ah, appreciate your enthusiastic support,” replied the Alderman. “As I was saying, while we are grateful for your, ah, relatively prompt assistance in locating some would-be dragon slayers, there is some, ah, concern that, perhaps, the group in question, based solely on their appearance, may not be entirely qualified for the task at hand.”

  “They look like a bunch of knicker-twisting nipple tweakers!” shouted an exceedingly shrill older woman who had the misfortune to have one of those faces that makes her look angry even when she’s telling a fluffy puppy that she loves it.

  “Now, now, Widow Gershon…let us not be too hasty in our, ah, judgment of these brave adventurers.” The Alderman turned toward me. “We just wish to, ah, reassure ourselves that they are indeed likely to achieve success.”

  “Alderman Alderman,” I replied, “not to be disrespectful of your, ah, authority,”—I couldn’t resist the verbal tic—“but you do recall that you’re not paying them anything, right?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose that’s technically true…”

  “So what does it matter if they fail? Your highly intelligent emissaries”—I pointed toward Goodman Drunkman and Goodman Youngman, both in attendance—“have already paid me the full contents of your coffers, and I’m not only discharging my duty to Skendrick by bringing these brave warriors to you, but have agreed to accompany them on their quest to find and slay the dragon at no additional charge.” Save, of course, for a potentially massive quantity of treasure, but I didn’t mention that.

  “Your logic, Ms. Bard, is impeccable, and you are correct regarding the, ah, disposition of our funds.” The Alderman shot Goodman Drunkman and Goodman Youngman a withering glare. Youngman at least had the grace to look down and compel his face to turn the color of a red-bellied knockadoor (I’ve heard that, in some places, they’re called “woodpeckers,” but that’s just a ridiculous word, so I’ll stick with the proper name). Drunkman, however, was focused on trying to pry open a flask and didn’t see the look. “But, even you yourself must concede that a group that counts amongst its number what appears to be a sick dwarf and a large, talking vermin doesn’t exactly inspire the most confidence as it pertains to, ah, slaying a mighty and powerful wyrm.”

  “I’m going to call racism on that one,” I replied, “on both counts. A Ratarian might just as easily call you a ‘nearly hairless wankstick’; would that be a fair and accurate characterization of the value you might contribute to a heroic expedition?” Honestly, the answer to that question was yes, but I decided to proceed as though it had been rhetorical. “As for the dwarf, he’s not sick—except maybe for his strange obsession with the ‘got your nose’ game. That’s just weird. Anyway, he’s half-halfling. That’s why he’s smaller than you’d expect.”

  The Alderman, a cannier politician than I’d have given him credit for, immediately walked back his comment without backing off his point. “Ah, yes, well, no one means to suggest that the racial heritage of our good heroes would be in any way an impediment. After all, we here in Skendrick draw great strength from our diversity of, ah, um, well, hairlines, I suppose.” He surveyed the all-white, all-human, mostly male, universally stupid assemblage. “But, you must concede that the dragon is an imposing foe, and that, to all appearances, this group may lack the, ah, appearance of battle-hardened adventurers whose experience and success in defeating similarly powerful foes might inspire in us great confidence in their prospects to, ah, rid us of this menace.”

  I couldn’t really argue the point; not with facts or logic, anyway, but I wasn’t sure that facts or logic would have been all that effective with this particular audience. So, I opted for the magic of song.

  “Gentlemen,” I said before turning to the trio of women in attendance, which included the delightfully plain spoken Widow Gershon. “And ladies. I believe I can convince you that this group, despite your misplaced misgivings, is more than capable of saving your fair town.” I unslung my lute from my back, gave it a quick strum—perfectly in tune, as always—and said, “But, don’t just take my word for it. Music never lies.” (That’s a lie, incidentally.)

  I struck up an up-tempo, rousing tune and played for a moment before I began to sing.

  * * *

  The Legendary Company of the Broken Statue

  Lean in, friends, and listen close

  For I won’t repeat myself.

  This is the story of a band of adventurers

  Led by a heroic and unstoppable elf.

  * * *

  Nadinta is her name, remember it well

  She comes from a land far away.

  Raised in sylvan woods, no stranger to fear

  Her wits and her bow keep her foes at bay.

  * * *

  Then there’s Rumscrabble Tooltinker,

  Prestidigitator extraordinaire.

  Able to make objects of all sizes

  Disappear into the thinnest of air.

  * * *

  Borgunder Gunderbor, tall and strong

  Hails from the hearty race of rock giants.

  With powerful hands and bulging biceps

  He makes sure enemies are compliant.

  * * *

  Finally, the group needs some magic;

  That’s where Whiska Tailiesen comes in.

  Her waving wand and scintillating spells

  Explode monsters both thick and thin.

  * * *

  All in all, it’s a powerful group,

  One who is immune to fear.

  Rest easy tonight, fair Skendrick,

  For your heroes are, at long last, here!

  * * *

  I strummed the last note of the song and then held my hand high as I soaked in the enthusiastic applause and adoration of my witless audience.

  Well, mostly witless.

  “Yes, well, while that was an, ah, admittedly catchy tune—quite a gift for melody our Ms. Heloise has—we’re really just, ah, taking her word that this group is capable,” said Alderman Wooddunny. “Nowhere within that song was there anything approximating a
proof point for the, ah, many assertions of the group’s ability and deeds.”

  I crossed my arms and smiled as the townspeople shouted the Alderman down, drowning out his protests with a chorus of boos and, in the case of the Widow Gershon, shouts of “Go pick your strawberries!” (I later learned that the Alderman had a taste for overripe strawberries and would let them linger on the bush long after others would have picked them, a proclivity the Widow apparently didn’t approve of.)

  “Shall I tell our brave band of heroes they can proceed, then?” I asked innocently when things had quieted down.

  The Alderman frowned, but knew when he was beaten. “Very well. Nadinta’s band will represent the good people of Skendrick, and we wish them many blessings and the protection of the Gods of Erithea on their quest! We will fete them in the village square this evening and, ah, see them off in the morning.”

  I nodded. “Good—I’m glad that’s settled. Now then, while I hardly need beauty sleep, I do need regular sleep, so I’ll see you all tonight.” I bowed and departed to another round of applause.

  If I can say anything about Skendrickians, it’s this: they throw terrible parties. Despite my bravura performance and the enthusiasm with which it was received, the turnout for the evening’s festivities represented less than half of the village, no one remembered to bring food, and the only liquor available was a barrel of small beer—thankfully, it was an enormous barrel, but given the relative lack of alcohol in small beer (I saw a five-year-old drink four glasses without showing any ill effects), people spent more time peeing than they did shucking clothing or slurring speech (sadly or fortunately, depending on your perspective).

  In all fairness, when your village is suffering from post-dragonic stress syndrome, the inability to throw a good party is understandable, and it’s tough to prepare hors d’oeuvres when the only surplus food you’ve got is an endless supply of korgoli. (If you’ve never had korgoli, don’t—at its best, it tastes like rotten broccoli doused in fish guts, and that’s when it’s prepared by someone who knows that they’re doing; in the hands of the unskilled, it tastes more like something Borg would leave in a tavern bathroom (though I’m given to understand that korgoli is highly nutritious, so there’s that).)

  The next morning’s sendoff wasn’t much better, though at least there was bacon. Or, at least, what I think was bacon. I didn’t see any pigs in or around the village, so it’s entirely possible that what we were served simply looked (and tasted) like bacon, but I’d rather not think about where it came from if not pigs.

  Alderman Wooddunny said a few unmemorable words in the midst of a drizzly mist, punctuated with numerous pauses and throat clearing, that inspired confidence in no one (least of all our hearty group of adventurers), and we went on our merry way. As we passed through the “gate” and headed out of town, my keen hearing picked up a few final parting comments.

  Words of support or encouragement? Hope for our success?

  Hardly.

  Some enterprising Skendrickian had started a betting pool, not to wager on our success, but to see how long we’d last; he even seemed to have a number of very charming prop bets in mind, ranging from which of us would lose a limb first to whether the dragon would crush anyone’s head in its jaws.

  With the wind at our backs (in the form of the hot air being generated by the good people of Skendrick), we set off toward Mount Fenneltop, where the dragon purportedly lived.

  First, however, we’d need to pass through the Dukbuter Swamp.

  I really hate swamps.

  Chapter 17

  CONQUERING THE SHAMBLING BOG MEN OF THE DUKBUTER SWAMP

  Through fetid swamp and mucky marsh our brave adventurers strode, their purposeful steps slowed and befouled by the mud and quicksand that sucked greedily at their feet, malignant forces intent on dragging their bodies down beneath the ground to join the corpses of so many heroes left unsung.

  But Nadinta and her band would not be deterred. By day, Mount Fenneltop loomed large before them, its imposing bulk magnified by the prospect of encountering the dragon that awaited them there. By night, dancing will o’ the wisps sought to lure them off the one tenuous path that threaded through the swamp, so narrow at points that even putting one foot in front of the other was no guarantee of not falling off to the side to be swallowed up by the gaping maw of the sucking mud.

  They paused for rest when they could on little islands in the swamp—rocks on which lichen had accumulated in such a way as to provide some cushion, albeit not a comfortable one. Those brief respites were interrupted by the snorking, stentorian breaths of shambling bog men, fearsome nocturnal predators whose ability to move through the swamp in total silence belied the power and ferocity with which they attacked.

  Fierce though the bog men were, and though their attacks seemed endless, Nadinta and her mighty warriors repelled them time and time again, with Whiska’s bolts of lightning splitting the murky night air, Borgunder’s crushing club shattering bog men’s skulls, Rumscrabble’s mighty mace dealing death disproportionately to his diminutive stature, and Nadinta’s sword slicing soundlessly through the stinking flesh of the putrid bog men.

  They battled for days on end, and where a lesser troop of warriors would have fallen, Nadinta and her troops emerged triumphant, escaping the last sticky steps of soft, swampy ground just as the sun began to set over the top of Mount Fenneltop.

  The battered band of brothers and sisters stood side by side, their breath heavy, but their will strong and their purpose undiminished. Their collective gaze turned toward the mountain, and though they knew the dragon waited for them atop it, they felt prepared to defeat the great wyrm—if they could find their way into its lair.

  Chapter 18

  TURNS OUT WALKING THROUGH A SWAMP IS EXACTLY AS MUCH FUN AS IT SOUNDS

  We stood at the edge of the Dukbuter Swamp, the last solid stretch of ground for several miles—miles that stood between us and the mountain the dragon allegedly called home. Despite asking a number of the locals, I’d never been able to determine the origin of the word “Dukbuter,” though one old wag I’d met at a pub had jokingly (or so I assumed) suggested that it was an ancient word in a lost tongue that, loosely translated, referred to the stench of sweat that builds up on the, um, undercarriage of a large man on a swelteringly hot day. That’s a recurring theme on this quest, apparently.

  Standing next to the swamp and smelling the noxious gas that washed over us, I realized the old timer hadn’t been trying to be funny. It smelled like a goblin corpse had just popped out the backdoor of a giant with indigestion issues.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Rummy amiably, “but it’s the glamor that attracted me most to the adventuring life.”

  Whiska scrunched up her face as she looked at each of us. “What’s the problem? Why do you all look like you’re about to vomit?”

  “You don’t smell that?” asked Nadi, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  Whiska inhaled deeply. “What? Smells like a swamp. Or a nice bowl of homemade ghomboh.”

  “What on earth is ghomboh, and how do I avoid ever having to taste, smell, or be in the same room with it?” asked Rummy.

  “Smells like…poo,” added Borg.

  “It’s funny,” I interjected, “and I don’t mean like ha-ha funny, but, like, interesting funny how you never hear about adventurers standing at the edge of a swamp trying to figure out exactly what disgusting smell it most resembles when bards are singing legendary tales.”

  “What’s your point?” asked Whiska huffily.

  “My point,” I replied (pointedly), “is that we can stand around talking about ghomboh and poo, or we can get on with it.”

  Silence reigned as everyone realized how unheroic they were being. Or, at least, that’s what I assumed everyone was thinking. Turns out not so much.

  “It’s really an awful smell,” said Rummy. “I mean, I’ve honestly never smelled the like.”

  “I think I might actuall
y vomit,” said Nadi.

  “I still think it smells like ghomboh,” replied Whiska approvingly.

  “And that’s a good thing?” responded Rummy.

  “Yes,” said Whiska, matter of factly.

  “I don’t like…how poo…smells,” said Borg.

  And so on for another fifteen minutes. After that, finally, we got on with it.

  Okay, so the smell was otherworldly, but the real danger was the presence of innumerable sinkholes. Even in the middle of the day, with the sun at its peak, the swamp was only dimly lit. Swamp gas and the light-absorbing shrubs that dotted the few pockets of solid ground combined to absorb much of the sunlight before it could burn off the top layer of fog that perpetually hung over the area. That made seeing the sinkholes almost impossible, and it’s not like there was a lighted path with enormous arrows and warning signs featuring funny pictures of people falling off the path and suffering horrific deaths to guide you safely through. Even Nadi, a trained ranger who could track a mouse through a cornfield, couldn’t easily navigate the swamp—the constantly shifting landscape made it impossible to walk the same pathway twice, and you had to test every step before you transferred your weight from back foot to front foot if you didn’t want to get sucked down to a stinky demise.