Dragon Business, The (23 page)

I
N THE DARK,
they set up camp in a sheltered place next to a rock outcropping with a clearing for an eventual cook fire, trees for tying the horses to, and a nearby stream, everything a group of dragon slayers could want for a nice vacation spot—or military camp. Cullin retrieved all the mounts while the consortium of knights hunkered down in the dark, without risking a fire. They discussed their plans in edgy voices.

“We should declare war on the beast,” said Sir Artimo. “Leave a formal document on the doorstep of that cave with an official seal from Queen Faria. Then we can all fight together, like an army.”

“Document? Can dragons read?” Cullin asked.

“No matter. It is a question of honor,” Tremayne said. “We have to follow the rules of the Knight’s Handbook in regards to the slaying of dragons. One brave knight at a time goes to face the beast.” He retrieved the leather-bound tome from his saddlebag. Although it was too dark to read, he recited for his comrades. “For a proper challenge against a dragon, a knight must go to the lair, call out the monster, and fight it alone. Ideally, the conflict ends with him slaying the beast.”

“Ideally,” Sir Jems said with a twinge of sarcasm.

Tremayne squinted at the pages in the moonlight, flipping back and forth, but could not find what he was looking for. “Unfortunately, the Manual is unclear in the circumstance where there’s more than one dragon slayer available, but the traditional rules say that it’s a solo job.”

Sir Hernon snorted. “We need to be pragmatic. Only one of us can have the princess anyway. Who gets chosen as the lucky one?”

Tremayne looked around at them. “Does anyone want the princess enough to go first?”

They had all seen the bland Princess Minima. Apparently, her attributes were insufficient to inspire any of the knights.

Sir Dalbry thought a moment and came up with a solution, as Cullin had known he would. He collected a handful of dried grass stalks, choosing the six best ones. “We’ll draw straws.” He trimmed them with his dagger so that each straw looked identical. “It’s the fairest way.” With a raised eyebrow, he looked at Sir Tremayne. “Does that fit the terms of the Manual?”

“I believe my father would approve. We’ll include that in the revised edition.”

The bright moon was high in the sky, and the gathered knights could see that the straws were all the same. Dalbry cut one in half and discarded the other end. “Six straws. The short one is somebody’s ticket to a dragon slaying.”

“Oh, boy,” said Sir Jems.

Dalbry extended the handful of straws toward the dour knight. “Would you like to draw first?”

“Not really.”

“Someone has to.”

“I’ll do it.” Sir Morgan plucked the first straw out of Dalbry’s hand. A long straw.

Realizing that his odds would get worse with each selection, Sir Jems quickly drew a straw of his own. Another long one.

Sir Tremayne drew the third long straw. Dalbry’s handful was getting smaller.

Sir Hernon reached forward. “Give me one of those.” He grabbed without looking—and stared at the short straw. The shaggy knight looked confused, then resigned.

Sir Artimo applauded. “Bravo! Good work, Hernon.”

Sir Tremayne lifted his chin. “We’re proud of you, Sir Hernon. Now go and make all knights proud.”

“You got lucky,” said Dalbry.

“I have luck all right.” Hernon scratched his bushy black beard. “Bad luck.”

“Don’t be like that,” said Sir Morgan. “Princess Minima is attractive enough. You could certainly do worse. Why, back in my day—”

Hernon cut him off. “We know the dragon’s out prowling right now, but it’ll sleep during the daytime. I’m going to take a nap. You others keep quiet so I can get some rest.” He trudged to a pile of dry leaves, fluffed them into a bed, and used a rock for a pillow. Within minutes he was snoring.

Cullin tried to doze off, but the tension in the camp was palpable, and he couldn’t find a comfortable position on the lumpy ground. The rest of the knights were nervous.

With a whoosh of displaced air and a reptilian shriek, the dragon returned to its lair in the dark hour before dawn, but Sir Hernon slept in. He kept snoring long past sunrise.

Sir Jems nudged him awake. “Shouldn’t you be out slaying that dragon, so the rest of us can go home?”

With a grunt, Hernon lifted his head from the rock. “I’m giving the monster time to fall into a deep sleep. With any luck, it ate a whole herd of sheep last night.”

“And with bad luck,” said Dalbry, “it ate a peasant village.”

“Don’t fret, I’ll take care of the beast today. It’s on my list of things to do.” Hernon rolled over and snoozed for another half hour before rising with a stretch. He shook leaves out of his matted hair and beard, and asked for breakfast. Cullin was able to produce some old squirrel jerky, and Dalbry offered two dried apricots. “Not much for a last meal, I’m afraid.”

Hernon grunted. “It’s not my last meal—just my last meal as a virgin dragon slayer.” He chuckled at his joke, and the other knights were amused out of politeness.

The shaggy knight gathered his armor, and Cullin—being the only squire around—helped him with the chest plate and helmet. Hernon tucked his long hair back from his visor so he could see.

“Good luck, brave Sir Hernon,” said Tremayne.

“Say it like you mean it!” said Hernon. “Or are you after that princess yourself?”

Tremayne was taken aback. “Not really.”

All the knights gave him their enthusiastic endorsement, still not quite sure what they had gotten themselves into. Sir Jems added, “I speak for all of us when I say we wish you every success . . . so we won’t have to make the attempt.”

Dalbry shook Hernon’s gauntleted hand. The big knight hiked up his broadsword, dusted off his shield, and turned his back on the camp. He headed off for his appointment at the dragon’s lair.

The rest of the knights sat in camp, sullen and anxious. Cullin took care of the horses, giving Sir Hernon’s mount a special encouraging pat. They waited.

Sir Morgan started telling about a beautiful plump countess he had once bedded, and how her husband had caught them together. “He punched me right in the mouth for the affront. The count’s signet ring was responsible for my missing front tooth.” He fingered the gap, slurring the words around his finger. “I think he left a chip of amethyst in there, and I got to bed the duchess. So . . . a good trade all around!”

Cullin finally stood up. As the squire and apprentice dragon slayer, the unpleasant work fell to him. “I’m going to see. Maybe Sir Hernon has already cut off the dragon’s head and needs help hauling it back.”

He glanced at Sir Dalbry, who gave him a nod. Cullin sprinted away from camp, his heart pounding. He hoped that his preposterous idea was correct, that Hernon simply needed assistance. The head of that dragon was the size of a handcart, far larger than the stuffed and preserved crocodile heads they had used for their scams. Now that he’d seen a real dragon, Cullin couldn’t believe that even the most gullible king had ever been convinced.

He crept through the forest, approaching the dark cave. He half expected to hear a shouted challenge, the clang of steel against scales. When the lair came into view, he did hear a growling snort, saw something heavy stir in the depths of the darkness. A loud roar and an explosion blasted from the cave mouth, followed by a tongue of fire.

Cullin ducked, holding his breath.

After another commotion in the deep shadows, a dented armor breastplate tumbled out onto the barren area in front of the lair. It landed among the other bones there. The armor was punctured by fangs, its edges half melted. Shortly thereafter, a few chewed and cracked bones were also tossed out onto the ground, after which came Sir Hernon’s battered shield.

With a heavy heart, Cullin plodded back to the knights’ camp, trying to decide how to tell the story of brave Sir Hernon—the epic battle of the shaggy knight and the beast, and how Hernon had never backed down, never showed fear.

But Cullin didn’t have the fortitude to make up such a tale. When he arrived at camp, the remaining knights turned toward him in hopeful anticipation.

They learned all they needed to know from his expression. Instead of the story he had wanted to concoct in honor of Hernon’s memory, Cullin managed only, “We’re going to need to draw straws again.”

A
FFONYL LURKED ABOUT
the knights’ camp, hiding in the bushes, waiting for the opportunity to speak with Cullin. When he went to the nearby stream to fetch water and try to catch fish, she saw her chance.

As he hunched over the stream, the young man was obviously troubled by the fate of brave Sir Hernon. He glanced up when he saw her coming. She usually saw a flirtatious, shy glint in the young man’s eyes, but right now he seemed exhausted, tense, and wary—and rightly so.

“They drew straws again,” he explained. “Sir Morgan will be the next one.”

“Those knights don’t waste any time,” Affonyl said. “Do they have a better plan than just having a man stand there and face the dragon?”

“Not really. They spent an hour this morning studying the Knight’s Manual, looking at the fine points, trying to figure out what options we have. They even read the appendices.”

Affonyl pointed out the obvious. “Nobody reads appendices.”

“That shows how serious the situation is. They’ve convinced themselves that Sir Hernon must have wounded the monster after putting up a terrific fight. Sir Morgan intends to finish off the beast single-handedly, according to the strictest interpretation of the Manual.”

Affonyl frowned. “When will he go out?”

“He’s preparing himself, limbering up, sharpening his sword. He plans to make his move late in the afternoon, before the dragon goes out for its nightly hunt.”

Affonyl knelt beside him at the stream bank, cupped her hands in the cold running water, and splashed her face. “Won’t the dragon be at its most fearsome after a good rest?”

Cullin plunged his hands into the brook and tried to grab a trout that obliviously swam too close; he made an impressive splash, but missed the fish. “Are
you
at your best and most alert the moment you wake up?”

“I suppose not.”

Cullin sat back on a tuft of grass, shaking water from his hands. “I don’t know what I’ll do if Sir Dalbry draws the short straw next—assuming Sir Morgan doesn’t kill the dragon, of course.”

They were both convinced that Morgan would not, in fact, kill the dragon.

“This is more than you counted on, Squirrel. If that happens, you and Dalbry should just slip away from here and not risk facing the beast at all. I’d rather have you . . . intact. The dragon business is supposed to be fun, not fatal.”

“Dalbry won’t do that,” Cullin said. “He’s made a career out of misleading gullible people, but his honor is real. He wouldn’t have accepted this quest if he knew the true danger, but the burden was placed upon him. Now he and the entire consortium of knights will finish their quest—or die trying.”

“One at a time really doesn’t sound like the best method. Why don’t they all attack the monster together? They’d have a better chance of killing it.”

“That’s what the Manual says.” Cullin shrugged. “Besides, there’s only one princess.”

“It would be a lot more sensible if they drew straws for her
after
they kill the dragon.”

“Honor isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes it just makes grown men stupid.” He let out a long sigh, clearly afraid for Dalbry.

Affonyl touched Cullin’s shoulder to reassure him. “Well,
we
don’t have to be stupid. Facing a dragon all alone, armed only with a brave face and a sword, isn’t the smartest approach. I’ve got an idea for a secret weapon. I’ll send Reeger into town with a shopping list.” She smiled. “There’s more than one way to skin a dragon.”

As the sun dropped into the western hills, Sir Morgan left the camp, accompanied by a flurry of well wishes, comradely pats on the back, and congratulatory grins from his rival knights (although their expressions fell into deep concern as soon as Morgan’s back was turned).

The bald knight carried his portable battle hatchet, which looked most useful for chopping wood, and his notched sword. Every one of those notches had a story, and Cullin now regretted that he had never encouraged Morgan to tell the tales. The knights granted him privacy to go kill the dragon, which would also leave him free to embellish the story however he liked, should he succeed. There would be no witnesses to contradict him.

But Affonyl needed to get a better grasp of what they were up against. She found a rock outcropping with a good view of the lair and the bone-strewn clearing and settled in to watch Sir Morgan’s challenge. Her stomach was knotted, her throat dry. Such stories were supposed to be uplifting, and the minstrels would sing about the brave knight’s exploits, but Affonyl had a bad feeling about Sir Morgan’s chances.

King Norrimun had often held jousting festivals, and she had seen Sir Phineal demonstrate his “Phineal squirm” more than once. Princess Affonyl usually sat in a fine dress underneath a silken awning, bored but pretending to watch. She wasn’t much of a sports fan, and saw jousting as nothing more than a way for grown men to prove their foolishness by charging at full speed toward each other while carrying long pointy sticks. For fun.

Now, crouched among boulders and twisted trunks, Affonyl had a good seat for the dragon-slaying—definitely
not
a silly sporting event—but she wasn’t looking forward to it.

As Sir Morgan approached the cave, he looked from right to left, as if to make sure no one was watching. Then he unfastened his crotch plate and urinated on the ground, like a dog marking his territory. More likely, the old knight was just so nervous he had to pee. It took him a long time to get the flow started, but it finally came out in a rush. He finished, refastened the crotch plate, adjusted his armor, and then stepped right up to the mouth of the dark and noisome cave. He held his trusty battle hatchet in his left hand, his notched sword in his right. He shouted as if reciting from the Knight’s Manual, “Bloodthirsty monster, I challenge you! Come forth and meet your fate.”

He waited, standing firm . . . and when nothing happened, he shuffled his boots. “Dragon, come forth, I say! I don’t have all day.”

The dragon lunged out, jaws wide. It belched a brief burst of flame that consumed Sir Morgan. Before the knight could scream in agony, the fanged jaws crunched down on him, and the monster dragged its still-cooking meal down into its lair.

The knights would have to draw straws again.

Affonyl bit her lip to keep herself from crying out. A lump formed in her throat. She had seen knights get injured or killed during jousting tournaments. It had angered her then, because the tournaments were entertainment, the deaths unnecessary.

Now she was angry because Sir Morgan had been trying to save lives, trapped by chivalrous obligations. A book of pointless rules had gotten him killed. But Affonyl was a
person
now, and she didn’t have to play by the old rules. She had work to do.