by Moore, John
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PRAISE FOR JOHN MOORE
Bad Prince Charlie
“Even better than its predecessors ... look for it, and enjoy!”
—Analog
“Moore once again ventures into territory many readers might think owned by Terry Pratchett (and one or two others) and makes it his own . . . the outcome is as unexpected as it is appropriate.”
—SFRevu
The Unhandsome Prince
“The plotting here is solid, the pacing is pitch-perfect, and the heroes even more warm and likable than they were in Heroics [For Beginners].”
—SF Reviews.net
“An amusing and adorable adult fairy tale.”
—The Best Reviews
“Fun, unpredictable, and a light-hearted read.”
—SFRevu
“In this clever twist on the old fairy tale, Moore combines elements of The Frog Prince, Rapunzel, and Rumplestiltskin into a fresh, modern whole.”
—Romantic Times
“John Moore has given us a great twisted fairy tale.”
—Blogcritics
Heroics for Beginners
“There’s a bucket full of good laughs in this one.”
—Chronicle
“There’s something here for every fan of comic fantasy.”
—Romantic Times
“Heroics for Beginners is Fractured Fairy Tales for a new age . . . Those who have worn out their copy of The Princess Bride will want to give this book a try.”
—Starlog
Ace titles by John Moore
HEROICS FOR BEGINNERS
THE UNHANDSOME PRINCE
BAD PRINCE CHARLIE
A FATE WORSE THAN DRAGONS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
A FATE WORSE THAN DRAGONS
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / May 2007
Copyright © 2007 by John Moore.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN : 978-1-429-57492-1
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To Ashley. To Colleen. To Morgan. To Linda and Juli and Rhonda and Kathy. And to Dusty and Renee and . . . well, actually to all the women who asked me, “Why is the redhead always the bad girl in your stories? Why don’t you write a story where the redhead is the good girl?”
This isn’t it.
This is the forest primeval, where the murmuring pines and hemlocks, bearded with moss, stand like Druids of eld, and the young elms sway like sailors in the eleventh hour of a twelve-hour liberty. This is the forest primeval, where golden eyes and white fangs flash silently in the ever-present twilight, and the roe startles and leaps at a rustle in the dry leaves. This is the forest primeval, where it is lunchtime.
In fact, it’s pretty much always lunchtime in the forest primeval, or even in the forest contemporary, which makes more use of open space and natural light and attracts a younger crowd of predators. There are always big carnivores looking for meals, although some are more finicky than others. Wolves and bears will happily feast on a dead carcass, but the lion and the panther like to kill their own dinner. Dragons, too, prefer fresh meat. And they like it roasted.
There was a very slight movement at the edge of the forest. Terry thought it could have been a dragon. It was hard to see. The sun was high and bright, and the distant trees cast deep shadows. The leaves had already turned color. In another month the woods would be bare of leaves, but now the foliage was still thick on the trees, and the shadows beneath those trees were dark enough to conceal something big, and the birds in those trees had suddenly become silent. That hinted at the presence of a predator, and not in a subtle way, either. These birds not only refused to sing, they were ready to swear that they had been on the opposite side of the forest on this particular day and had five friends to vouch for them. Away from the trees, in the center of the meadow, a skinned goat sizzled on a spit. Beneath it, a small fire was steadily burning down to coals. On his own side of the meadow, Terry held his lance steady and peered through the trunks, keeping his horse away from the open space and out of sight.
A stout man in a rough leather jerkin was standing at the head of the horse, one hand resting on the bridle, the other holding a bottle with a garishly printed label. “It’s not coming,” he said. “The mix is all wrong, I tell you. Rosemary and mint, that’s what we should have used. It’s a well-known recipe.”
“That’s for lamb, Huggins. This is a goat,” said the young man in the saddle. “This is the recipe we want. Besides, those are magical herbs out there. I bought that seasoning from a first-rate magician. He said dragons go crazy for it.”
Huggins read the label on the empty bottle: SIZZLIN’ SORCERER BARBECUE SAUCE—OLD FAMILY RECIPE. “Sure.” He tossed the bottle away. Then he slipped a few paces back, behind the horse, out of Terry’s line of sight, removed a tin flask from a pocket of his jerkin, extracted the cork, and took a hefty swallow. “I was thinking, Sire,” he said. “I was wondering if perhaps you could give me my wages along about now.”
Terry kept his eyes fixed on the woods. The motion he thought he saw had not reappeared. “Huggins, you know there’s no money until the rents come due. Then I’ll pay you. Have I ever failed to pay you?”
“No, Sire.” Huggins had the kind of round, jovial face that inspires immediate confidence in young children and none at all in adu
lts. “But then, suppose—just suppose—something was to happen to you, say, on the way home. After you slay this dragon. Perhaps you fall ill, let’s say. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to leave me financially strained.”
Again there was a flicker of movement among the trees. Terry narrowed his eyes. “Huggins, this unusual concern with my well-being transmits a certain air of insecurity. Am I to infer that my faithful squire lacks faith in my abilities?”
“Not at all, Sire, not at all,” his faithful squire assured him. “You can count on my steadfast loyalty, Sire. If you say you can slay a dragon, I do not doubt you. But then, I expect the other nine knights also had faith in their own abilities. And they . . .”
“They had squires who stayed sober.”
“Just a little nip to steady my nerves, Sire.”
“By now your nerves should be steady enough to support a billiard table. Put the flask away. And throw some more water on the horse.”
Huggins dipped a bucket into a shallow stream and splashed water on Terry. The knight wore armor, but the armor was covered with wet blankets. “On the horse, Huggins.” The horse was draped with blankets also, brown and gray wool to fit in among the trees. But you couldn’t cover the legs, not if you wanted to get up any speed, and Terry knew the horse was not going to survive this day. It shifted its feet, showing its nervousness. Terry patted it on the neck and murmured calming words. Other knights had told him they talked to their horses, soothing the animals, encouraging them before battle, with good results. Terry’s horse rolled its eyes every time he spoke to it, although it was impossible for him to tell if this meant the horse was afraid or if it thought Terry was an idiot. He gave up, and said aloud, “Nine knights in ten years. That’s really not too bad for a dragon this size. It’s fewer than one per year.”
“It’s a hundred percent casualty rate, Sire. In the great and honorable game of knights against dragons, this one is an undefeated champion. You know, Sire?” Huggins went on, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “We can still turn and walk away from this. There’s no shame in it. No one back home knows we came down here.”
“We can’t go back without trying, Huggins. We have our responsibilities. This dragon has been terrorizing the locals for a decade. These honest, hardworking peasants, slaving away in the fields, those innocent young children, cowering in their hovels, all of them living in fear, never knowing if the next moment might bring the dreaded . . .”
“You never worried about the peasants before, Sire.”
“The reward wasn’t big enough then.”
“What reward? You mean the bounty? It still isn’t very big. Wait for a while. Let it kill a few more knights, and they might start offering real money.”
“Not the bounty, Huggins. There is another reward. The real reward. The hand of the princess in marriage.”
This time both his squire and his horse rolled their eyes. Huggins offered up his flask. “Take a drink, Sire. Maybe it will clear your head. If this is about some girl . . .”
“Put it away, Huggins. Now. And it’s not some girl, it’s the most wonderful girl in the kingdom. The most beautiful, adorable, delightful girl in all the Twenty Kingdoms. The sweetest, the fairest, the most charming . . . um . . . graceful . . . let’s see . . .”
“Winsome,” Huggins suggested.
“Win some, lose some, this is no time for philosophy. The princess—whoa! There it is!”
Huggins snapped the flask away from his lips. He ran forward, almost to the edge of the meadow, looked out, and immediately backed up. “Son of a bitch!” He tried to jam the flask into his belt, found as usual that a roll of fat prevented this, and fumbled it into the pocket of his jerkin. He grabbed the bucket and began furiously splashing water on Terry.
Terry watched the dragon. It was a normal-sized dragon, which meant it was pretty damn big. Its shoulders stood as high as the horse, and the body was twice as long. The menacing tail added more to the length. It seemed to be made entirely of teeth, claws, and muscle covered with thick scales. It had emerged from the cover of the wood, but was still cautious about going into the meadow, sniffing the air, stalking back and forth along the tree line, turning its head to look at the roasting goat from one side, then the other. A few drops of saliva ran down one side of its mouth. A thin tendril of smoke drifted from the other side.
A face full of water obscured Terry’s view.
He pushed up his visor to wipe his eyes. “That’s enough, Huggins. We’re wet already. Why are you acting so surprised? We’ve been stalking this thing for three weeks. Get a grip, man.”
“Yes, Sire. You said you were tracking it.” The squire already had another bucket of water. He turned around, looking for something else to throw it on. “But in all honesty, Sire, your skills as a tracker aren’t worth spit. Mostly you were just riding around and asking people if they’d seen a dragon lately. And they always said yes. And then they sent us to some god-awful swamp or briar patch, or up some cliff. I thought they were just having you on.”
“You’re not a trusting soul, are you, Huggins?” The knight spoke without taking his eyes off the dragon. It stopped moving and stared intently at the roasting goat. Fat dripped into the fire, causing tendrils of flame to lick at the meat. A puff of fragrant smoke reached the animal’s nostrils. The dragon began slavering. Strings of drool extended from its jaws. It was a thoroughly disgusting sight, but Terry smiled. He had the beast locked in now. It wasn’t going to leave without its dinner.
“Huggins!” he said sharply. His squire had been staring at the dragon with horrified fascination and slowly backing away. “Get the hammer and the horse spike!”
Huggins snapped back to reality. He rummaged in the duffel bags until he came up with a mallet and thick spike. He held them up for Terry’s inspection.
Terry nodded. “Huggins, this horse is going to be injured. I don’t want it to suffer. As soon as you can approach safely, put the horse out of its misery. Do this even before you attend to me. Got it?” Huggins nodded, wide-eyed. Before he could say anything, the dragon charged.
A flock of grouse erupted from the field. Terry snapped down his visor, gripped his lance more tightly, and leaned forward in the saddle. Wait for it, wait for it, he told himself. Dragons were fast. They could outrun a horse on level ground. Let him get the goat. Let him get distracted. The beast was almost at the goat before Terry gave his horse the spurs.
His visor narrowed his field of vision to a bright band of meadow, sunlight, and scaly beast. It reached the goat. Terry heard quite clearly the crunch of teeth through the ribs. Then the only sound seemed to be the thunder of hooves. The dragon grew larger and larger in his vision. It hunkered down over the goat, and Terry aimed the iron-tipped lance at a spot between the shoulder and the neck. He’d been told that if you could get the point through the scales, and if you missed the shoulder bones, you could drive the lance right through to the heart. Then the dragon lifted its head, and Terry switched his aim to the throat. The books all said that the scales were thinner here, and you could get a killing blow to the neck. Then the dragon saw Terry.
Swallow, thought Terry. Swallow, damn you. The dragon had the goat hanging out of both sides of its jaws. If it swallowed, the goat would be in its throat, and Terry would have extra precious moments before the dragon could spew flame.
Regrettably, he was up against a dragon with a strong work ethic, the kind that knew business came first. It dropped the goat on the ground, spread its jaws wide, and roared.
The horse almost turned aside, and that was very nearly the end of it, but it was a good horse and responded well to pressure from Terry’s knees and his hand on its neck. It lowered its head and charged faster. The dragon stood its ground. Terry aimed his lance at the open mouth. And the dragon flamed him.
It seemed to happen instantly. One moment he was staring at an incredible number of incredibly large and crooked teeth. In the next moment he was engulfed in fire. Every inch of his skin sudde
nly felt like it had been burned raw and dipped in salt water. An instant later the pain filled his lungs. The dragon disappeared behind a wall of bright orange. The horse screamed and stumbled. Terry felt his lance strike something hard. He tried to hold on to it, but the horse fell from beneath him, and he was lifted up and flung away. The orange light vanished. He had a brief glimpse of blue sky. He had a briefer glimpse of tan grass. He got a good long view of blackness.
When he came back to consciousness he was looking at a circle of concerned faces. Someone had removed his helmet. Cool air was blowing across his skin. He greeted them with a paroxysm of prolonged coughing, which they seemed to find reassuring, as the oldest man turned around, and shouted, “He’s alive!” Terry heard cheering. There were people streaming across the field—local villagers—Terry recognized some of them from his visit yesterday. Eager hands helped him to his feet.
“Name’s Brimble,” said the oldest man. He was portly, with a neatly trimmed white beard. “I’m the mayor of Dasgut Village. I believe you stayed at my inn yesterday. Take it easy now, son. It tossed you a pretty fair distance.”
Terry got his coughing under control. “Is it dead?” He looked around, but saw no sign of the dragon. Huggins, on the other hand, was coming across the meadow.
“Dead, dead, dead. Yes, sir. We found it in the woods with a lance through its head. A very professional job, through the roof of the mouth and into the skull, just like the books said. You have a nice little bounty coming to you, good Sir Knight. Come on back to my inn, and I’ll get the paperwork going. This is a joyous day for us. For years that dragon has forced us to lock ourselves in our homes. And only eat boiled meat.”