by Jags, Chris
“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.
II
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 gol
den 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.