The Unwavering Slayer of Dragons
by Paul Ray © 2006
Bren took a gulp from his tankard and forced the dark liquid down. His eyes scanned the gloomy room surveying the crowd.
Pathetic, he thought, simply pathetic.
The whole township had squeezed inside the little tavern, and everywhere people were reveling, reeling, toasting, and merrymaking. Another hard swallow of ale was required; these people were ugly.
The tavern was a part of the town's only inn, and like all the other drab buildings he'd passed along the way, it was in a disturbing state of disrepair. The rutted road leading to the village had carried him past fields of fire-scorched crops and blackened stumps. At one bend several pigs had paused from their slop to eye the passing stranger, and a handful of mangy dogs had fallen in line behind him. He hurried his pace, fearing they'd been after the nice little lunch his mother had packed before sending him off that day.
The occasional villager flashed him a wary, yet gamy-eyed look at his passing canine parade. He nearly wished he'd never drifted into the tumble-down hamlet.
Then he recalled why the bar patrons were so suddenly happy: A hero had appeared in their midst. One who was tremendously strong, enormously brave, and stunningly handsome, possessing such abundant charisma that fine hounds trailed in his wake and wallowing sows (more intelligent than dogs, by the way) ogled as he passed... and yet somehow, that had been more attention than he was currently receiving in the tavern. He was starting to feel akin to that of having been forgotten at your own birthday party, but a quick survey of the room made him realize that maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
Why couldn't these townsfolk hold off on their celebrating until after he'd returned from slaying the beast? This was a strange little town...
He snapped back from his drifting thoughts as a hoe-thin serving girl refilled his cup, flashing gums as wide as his belt and as dark as the ale. Across the room a cross-eyed fiddle player tapped out a barefoot beat, stopping intermittently to scratch at the rash on his neck while the rest of the band played on. And everywhere patrons swirled and twirled in an odd display of something that might have been dancing. He choked back another sour gulp.
Then, a gap-toothed wench promenaded around a portly stump of a man and sashayed over to where Bren was roosting on his barstool. She flipped a mess of tangled locks with a spastic shake of her head, and winked. Bren could only assume the motion was meant to be alluring or something. He concentrated on the cloudy depths of his drink, hoping she was just passing by to strike up a conversation with the fingernail chewing hunchback beside him.
But she wasn't.
“Hello handsome,” she breathed.
Bren politely forced a half-smile and nodded, then returned to studying his beverage.
“I said hello there,” she repeated, loud enough to attract more than a few stares. Her greasy lips brushed against his ear as she grabbed an ample handful of his left buttock.
“Whoa, right, hi,” Bren wriggled from her grasp.
“How about buying a lady a drink, then?” Her dark blue eyelids blinked several times on her flour-white face as she pursed her lips like a baying dog.
“You can't possibly still be thirsty—,” he carefully started to reply, hoping she wouldn't raise her voice again. Her eyes locked onto his as she snatched the cup from his hand and gulped down its contents.
“Keep it,” he said as she offered back the mug.
“Let's dance,” she said, then belched.
She slammed the tin cup down and tugged him away from the comfort of his stool. His nails scraped across the wooden bar top as the hunchback quietly chuckled.
Bren cursed the slow picking fiddler, as she gripped him tight and gripped him hard. The whole town was watching, so he endured, while the caller called:
“Swing her round, and round she goes, Tip her back and blow her nose.”
She spun him, pushed him, and pulled him close again, smothering his face against her heaving bosom.
“Grab your partner by the chin,
Hope to hell you don't get sucked in.”
He wasn't sure how much more he could take. Dizziness filled his head as he gritted his teeth.
“Swing her round, and round she goes,
Just blew out her pantyhose...”
Bren lost consciousness.
When he awoke, the tops of his feet ached, and his ribs were tender, not to mention his chin. It was the sharp-nosed face of the mayor that first came into focus above him as he lay looking up at the blurry roof beams.
“Well, son, you ain't much of a dancer, but I must say we certainly do appreciate what you come all this way to do for us.” A smile smeared across the mayor's face and he leaned in. His long gray mustache tickled Bren's ear as he spoke in a pickle-scented whisper, “and I have a feeling that my precious Girdelina is real appreciative too.”
Bren's eyes shot open and bulged from their sockets. He hoped that he'd misheard, but then spied his robust dancing partner across the room, flashing a monstrous smile and throwing another seductive wink (well more of a blink) his way.
Just let me die , he thought, to match how he felt. Was she the beast he was meant to slay?
But with that thought, Bren suddenly remembered that he was the tremendously strong, enormously brave, and stunningly handsome hero that he was and leaped straight up, drawing forth his sword in one fluid motion.
“Lead me forthwith to that terrible demon-spawned dragon, that I might serve the indisputable justice of cold steel upon its scaly hide!” he declared, his blade pointing high to the rafters.
He expected his announcement to be met with a volley of cheers and thunderous applause, the likes of which are reserved for the bravest of heroes, but only muted silence followed his bold declaration. Then, as he stood there wide-eyed with sword aloft, a timid voice made its way through the awkward silence enshrouding the tavern.
“I... um, I'm not entirely sure that it really is all that scaly,” the voice said.
Bren shook the blade once for emphasis and resolutely responded, “Well then, I will swiftly execute the selfsame justice on its vile horn-spiked head!”
“It, um, doesn't really have horns... does it?” someone else cautiously asked, his comment raising a few murmurs of agreement.
Then another voice in the crowd answered, “Well... not really horns, no...”
“More like antlers wouldn't you say?” the first replied.
“Antlers?”
“Right,” Bren interrupted, “then I shall thrust the very tip of my mighty dragon-slaying sword deep into the serpent's wretched breast, and impale its green-blooded heart whilst dodging the ferocious snaps of its razor sharp teeth and the lightning slashes of its dagger length claws!”
“Does it have claws?”
“I'm not even sure about the teeth.”
“All right, all right, enough already,” snapped the brave dragon slayer, his sword point resting limply on the floorboards. “Which way?”
The mayor pointed through the open doorway, towards a row of dark hills silhouetted against the horizon. Bren sheathed his blade, gathered his meager belongings, and went forth from the crowded tavern with haste, making a beeline for the hills.
And because not all bees fly in a straight line, Bren's thoughts also began to meander. Exactly what sort of beast was he set to destroy? How accurate had the drawing on the poster hearkening him to this cause actually been? Was the beast the very same enormous black, two-headed, fire-breather that he hoped? Or had that just been part of a sly ploy to pique his interest? He was beginning to have doubts.
Bren's reputation as The Greatest Dragonslayer in All the Land had earned him the right to slay the vile creature. And despite the fact that it was a rather small land to begin with, he knew of none other brave enough to stand and face the horrible beast. It was up to him, and he alone, to protect that little town, no matter how strange its inhabitants seemed to be, or how dangerous the beast.
Nonetheless, a certain amount of caution was in order, despite what he'd heard at the inn, for a dead dragon slayer (or even one hurt rather badly) was not a very good one in his books. And were he to be killed outright, it would definitely mar his impeccable reputation.
So, being a dragonslayer by profession, he had come to know the nature of dragons; and hence had formulated an utterly infallible plan...
At once, the cave entrance loomed before him, cut into the side of a massive conical mountain. The moment of truth had arrived. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, leaving the world behind.
The passageway was dark, but a warm glow of light shone from somewhere around the bend before him. As he expected, deep claw marks were etched into the stone walls and floor of the charred corridor. Bren paused and listened.
There were sounds coming from up ahead, but not the huge reptilian slither, or the deep hell-fire growling that he'd braced himself for. Rather, it sounded curiously as though a rather heated debate was underway.
Had other dragonslayers already beaten him to his quarry? It seemed hard to imagine, yet what was the squabbling he could hear? The natural caution of a seasoned dragonslayer melted within, replaced by a surge of anger: he was The Greatest Dragonslayer in All the Land! He could not and would not stand idly by and watch somebody else snatch away his promised prize!
His sword hissed from its sheath as he marched around the bend ready to challenge any and all would-be dragon poachers who would dare oppose him.
“I tell you it's meant to be in for twenty minutes, no longer!” A loud voice reverberated off the walls of the cavern.
“You are ever so wrong, twenty-two will guarantee it's perfection, and not a second less.”
With his legendary battle-cry (which can't be printed here due to copyright restraints), Bren entered the chamber ready to fight. But to his surprise, he found no other dragon slayers at all. Instead, the very black dragon he'd seen on the poster towered before him, antlers and all. Its two heads immediately ceased all their bickering and looked down at the tiny warrior.
“Oh,” said one of the heads.
It appears I have guest,” said the other.
“Splendid,” replied the first.
Bren stood there dumbfounded. Of course he had encountered many a dragon in his day, but the scorched mind of a professional dragonslayer was sometimes needed a primer.
“Well, don't just stand there with your mouth open like you've never seen a dragon before” said the first head. “Do come in.”
Bren was a little embarrassed, remembering that he was fearless, after all. He strode into the chamber and headed for a wooden chair indicated by the dragon.
“Hey!” said the second head. “Mind your boots. You're tracking in mud! This may just be a cave in the side of a mountain to you, but it's still our home.”
“Sorry,” said Bren, noticing a finely framed needlework hanging on the stone wall over the table.
“Well, I must say this is a treat,” the first head said, flashing a toothless smile.
Bren wasn't sure what it meant by the word treat , but decided not to ask. Dragons were meant to be intelligent he knew, but he believed himself to be more so. He also had to try and save face for the dumbfounded mouth open scene he'd entered the cave with.
“So, Mr. Dragon,” he started, staring up at the massive beast.
“Oh, please, call me Bertram,” replied one of its heads.
“Very well... Bertram.” Bren's dragon-hunting intuition kicked in as he wisely continued, “But aren't there two of you?”
“Oh no, don't be silly, I just have two heads,” answered Bertram with a grin.
The other head wasn't smiling.
“Excuse me,” it said, as if to remind Bertram as well. “My name happens to be Dennis.”
“No!” cried Bertram. “How many times do I have to tell you? I've had just about enough of this nonsense. We are... I mean, I am, one dragon. Hence the need of just one name!” He looked back down at Bren in anticipation of some support for his argument, but to the hero's relief, Dennis quickly cut in.
“You must be aware that we do, in actuality, have two heads,” he said rather than asked.
“Not again. Look, it doesn't matter how many heads I have, I don't need two names! Remember Clarence, the green-toed dragon of Tandalareon? Well, he has eleven heads, and they are all named Clarence. Not once has any ever whined to be called Larry or Sylvia or Eli or Bernice or—”
“Right, they happen to be called Clarence-One, Clarence-Two, Clarence-Three, Cla—”
“Fellas,” interrupted Bren. “If you don't mind, I am meant to be the hero of this epic, so could we just skip all this bickering over who's called what and get on with the whole slaying thing already?”
“Oh, excuse me.”
“Us.”
“Me.”
“Us.”
“Listen,” said the mighty dragonslayer, “unless I'm mistaken, I think I may in fact have something that you can both actually agree on.”
Now Bren, being the accomplished dragonslayer that he was, knew a thing or two about dragons. After all, it was he who had single-handedly defeated the mighty Red-Beaked Serpent of Quindaloo with a blade of spider grass and a length of fishing twine. And it was also he who had brilliantly ended the dreaded reign of the Web-Footed Snow Dwelling Dragon of Chicklenut by blowing a handful of anti-pepper into its fiery nostrils. So, he was experienced enough to know that the real trick to dragon slaying was not simply about picking the right length of sword, but more importantly, being able to discover and exploit the beasts' very weaknesses!
Yet Bren had never faced the rarest of black dragons before, because they were somewhat hard to come by (hence, being rare). But, as previously stated, he did believe himself to be rather clever, therefore, he was adept enough to deduce that a two-headed, toothless dragon with antlers must also have a weakness. And whilst in the heroic throes of deduction he had managed to formulate the aforementioned infallible plan...
“It is my understanding,” he coyly surmised, “that you happen to be rather fond of quiche. Is that not so?”
“Oh yes, I/we am/are,” Bertram and Dennis gleefully replied in unison.
“Well that's wonderful, because I just happen to have a nice plate of oh-so tasty quiche with me as we speak.” Bren unwrapped the checkered cloth his mother had given him and placed the egg-based delicacy on the table in front of them.
“Mmmmm, smells delicious,” said Dennis excitedly.
But Bertram was more wary than his overeager counterpart, for it was not the first time a hopeful dragon slayer had hunted them with quiche in hand.
“Just a sec,” he said. “What was all that talk a moment ago, about slaying and whatnot? This isn't some sort of poisoned quiche by any chance now is it?”
“Bertram, my friend, do you honestly think I would try to poison you with a quiche? I am a brave and great warrior, not some skulking eunuch. Besides, this is my mother's very own recipe.” With that, Bren sliced off a tiny piece and popped it into his mouth.
“I'm sorry,” said Bertram.
“You should be,” said Dennis, shaking his head.
“It's just, with all the ill will those ever so horrible townsfolk continually inflict upon my not-so-scaly hide, one does have to be careful now, doesn't one?”
“So does two,” added Dennis, “but obviously this fellow bears no resemblance to that hideous lot. Can't you see how stunningly handsome he is? Now, let us enjoy his mother's fine quiche.”
“Maybe you're right... my apologies.” Bertram proffered up his plate.
Bite after bite, the trio conversed, laughed, and at times cried together as they enjoyed the delicious quiche and each other's company. Bren told affectionate stories about his life prior to dragonslaying, and the dragon joked about how it had lost most of its scales. And somehow during their whole-hearted interaction Bren came to realize that the immense creature before him was nothing more than a misunderstood child, whose only real shortcoming was that it suffered from a slight identity problem (two heads can do that).
So, maybe it had razed a few buildings, trampled the occasional crop, and even eaten a blacksmith or two... but who hasn't? Besides, the hideous townspeople had teased and harassed poor Bertrum and/or Dennis until it had no other option but to strike back.
Why did they hate this gentle giant so much? Was it sheer jealousy? Despite the antlers, the dragon wasn't all that bad looking as far as dragons went. Perhaps the beast's good nature and apparent charm had been enough to set those people on edge. Jealousy perhaps, coupled with the fact they had built their accursed village in the dragon's backyard (right atop the chrysanthemums –or so the story goes). And then they had the nerve to wonder why it had become so upset?
“I must confess,” said Bren, his mouth half full, “that when I first came into your home, I was intent on killing you. My plan had been simple: distract you with my mother's quiche and then take you unawares (yet still in a brave and courageous way). But now that we've shared this fine meal together and I've gotten to know the real Bertram and/or Dennis, I must say that I am resolved at last to hang up my slayer's sword for good, and put my dragon hunting days behind me.”
“That is good news then,” Dennis replied. “Perhaps you are aware that sadly there are not a lot of us left anymore. I mean, there are still the Clarences in Tandalareon of course, and—”
Ding. It was the oven bell.
“Oh, I've been enjoying myself so much that I'd almost forgotten,” said Bertram. The dragon pulled a steaming quiche pie from the oven and placed it on the table to cool. “I actually got this recipe from Clarence-Eight, it's been in his family for years. You must try some before you leave. I insist.”
“I'd be delighted,” the ex-dragonslayer said, holding out his plate and licking his fork.
Suddenly, as the dragon began to serve, there was a tremendous rumbling sound. Bren knew straightway that it wasn't his quiche-filled stomach as the cave shook violently around them rattling pots and pans in the kitchen cupboards.
“Oh dear,” said Bertram.
“What? What is it?” Bren shouted over the racket whilst trying to keep his balance. Ceiling stones started to rain down nearby, sending up a cloud of dust.
“Well, we're afraid that our little volcano might not be entirely dormant,” replied Dennis.
“But please don't worry, this sort of thing does happen from time to time,” Bertram continued. “It usually settles back down soon enough. I must confess though, it is most embarrassing.”
“Yes, I hope you can forgive this rudeness. Please sit back down and pay it no mind, it should be over any moment.”
Another boulder struck nearby as Bren started to return to his seat. He hoped the dragon was right, though the quake showed no signs of subsiding.
“Hmmm,” Dennis finally admitted after another moment or two. “Does this one seem rather prolonged to you?”
“Maybe a bit,” agreed Bertram.
The needlework fell from the wall.
“My apologies, but perhaps it would be for the best, if you were to be on your way to a safer place...”
“Perhaps,” said Bertram, “But I'm afraid Dennis may actually be right. I'm so sorry that this little tremor has ruined our luncheon party.”
Bren didn't need any further convincing; he was incredibly brave, not incredibly stupid. So he waved bye-bye to his new friend(s) and headed back along the trembling floor and out the way he'd entered. And as he stepped from the cave opening, the last thing he could make out through the din of the rumbling mountain was the dragon's voice saying, “Did you just call me Dennis?”
Then the cave entirely collapsed behind him and the shaking stopped.
Lady Luck was with him, Bren thought to himself as he looked up at the thin column of smoke rising from the cratered summit of the volcano. That had been close.
“Ah, Bren,” a voice startled him from behind. He turned to see the mustached mayor and several other townsfolk gathered a short ways down the slope.
“I must congratulate you for a job well done.” He said, pointing to the sealed cave mouth. “Now none of us can deny that we are truly in the presence of a great hero. It appears that you have gallantly purged our town of that menace once and for all, and for that we are thoroughly indebted to you.”
His ego stroked, Bren started to feel a resurgence of boldness once again as he stood before the gathered villagers. They were none the wiser to the fate of the quiche-eating dragon, and perhaps it was for the best. You see, Bren knew enough about dragons to believe that it had, of course, survived the little mountainside quiver. In fact, it was probable enjoying a bite or two of Clarence-Eight's delicious quiche at that very moment, deep in the belly of its own volcano, safely out of sight of these unsightly people.
Admittedly, Bren's infallible plan had been thwarted, but still he had managed to come off looking like a virtual savior and likewise remained unscathed. He smiled to himself; he certainly was the luckiest man in all the land.
“Now, let us present you with your rightfully earned rewards, oh Great Slayer of Dragons,” the mayor declared whilst unrolling a bit of yellowed parchment. He cleared the phlegm from his throat and began to read aloud:
“Courtesy of our local dairy co-operative: one utterly fine milking cow.” Someone handed him a lead, the other end of which was tied around the neck of a scruffy looking bovine. It stared blankly at him and ruminated. He'd never had his own cow before.
“An entire year's worth of instruction, that's fifty-two one hour lessons, at the local branch of the Reel & Whirl Academy of Dance,” the mayor continued.
“Twelve of Mrs. Underwood's famous raisin-fudge brownies. Yummy. A free tankard of ale, courtesy of the Grinning Dog Tavern. And finally,” the mayor paused to clear his throat again, “the hand of the fairest maiden in all the land.”
Bren's ears shot up. “Sorry, could you repeat that last one? Did you just say the hand of the fairest maiden in all the land?” That didn't sound so bad, he had heard of this type of thing before and it seemed more than appropriate, considering his credentials... though what would he do with a hand?
“Indeed, I did son. Or should I say my son? It makes me more than proud to announce the engagement of this young and fearless warrior to my very own delicate and beautiful flower, Girdelina.”
Bren fainted again. He'd forgotten that it was a rather small land to begin with, hence the limited size of its fair maiden pool.
But, as Luck was still with him, the dormant volcano had only been resting for but a moment, and it erupted, instantly bathing the village and all its displeasing inhabitants in a shower of liquid hot lava, ash, and quiche.
And thus ends this immortal tale, with the land purified by liquid fire and our hero simply vaporized from existence.
Well, not quite.
Fortunately for Bren there were still a few blades of spidergrass in his trouser pocket, so he survived the rain of molten fire-rock intact. He simply saddled up his brand new cow, pointed its nose towards the land of Tandalareon, and left the magma cleansed countryside behind, twelve raisin-fudge brownies in hand.
And in so doing, renders the actual conclusion to the ageless saga of the ultimate struggle of beast versus man versus quiche.
So what do subsequent generations of venerable scribes contemplate when they explore the mysteries within this great and immortal tome? Well, its contributions to the betterment of mankind are many, but it's this morsel of great wisdom that remains unchallenged: Beauty is only skin deep, but smoking volcanoes can kill you.
The End
Paul Ray lives in the foothills of Mt Fuji, just outside of Tokyo,
Japan. His short stories can be read in various publications
including: Anotherealm, Kenoma, AlienSkin, CyberTales-LiveWire...
The Unwavering Slayer of Dragons (Apr/06) is his first story to appear
at Staticmovement. He maintains a blog at:
http://paulxray.journalspace.com