Dragon Business, The (27 page)

C
ULLIN QUICKLY CONCLUDED
that his brave and honorable decision was not, in fact, a good idea after all. But it was too late to change his mind.

The dark lair was surrounded by the shadowy forest, and he heard suspicious sounds everywhere. He feared the dragon might spring out and grab him from behind a tree (although the monster was far too large for that). Dalbry’s sword felt heavy and unwieldy in his hand, and he had a hard time gripping the hilt because his palms were sweaty. Cullin had not practiced with this weapon at all. In fact, he was barely proficient with his own smaller blade.

He took a circuitous route, convincing himself that he did so for reasons of stealth rather than procrastination. Since they had already blown up Affonyl’s three explosive casks, he wanted to plan his strategy, develop a worthy new scheme that used his wits and finesse to slay the dragon, instead of brute force and naked steel (which had not previously proved effective).

Nevertheless, he hoped for the best. Maybe the dragon had been injured in the explosion and would be considerate enough to heave itself forward and die without causing further trouble. Yes, and maybe a fairy queen would swoop down to rescue Cullin and take him to a fine palace on the moon. . .  .

Since the area in front of the dragon’s lair was already devastated, the exploding casks had simply rearranged the debris. He spotted Sir Morgan’s scorched battle hatchet lying on the ground and wondered if that might be a more viable weapon than Dalbry’s heavy sword . . . but a sword was more true to form, and he decided to keep up appearances.

Swallowing hard, Cullin swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing the anti-flame cream Affonyl had slathered on him. Once he gathered his nerve, he emerged from the trees and stepped forward in full view of the cave.

By now he was sure the dragon must be tired of all the interruptions, but Cullin did not feel guilty about bothering it yet again. He intended to kill the monster. He didn’t need a virgin sacrifice or a tasty mule as bait.

He grasped the sword in both hands, held it straight up, and shouted his challenge, but he was so nervous that his voice came out as a dry squeak. So he cleared his throat and called again. “Dragon, I command you to come out and face me like a man!”

By now the dragon knew what to do, and it stirred deep within the dark cave.

Cullin held his ground, though he felt sweat prickling under the drying fire-protection salve. “Come out and pay for all the blood you have on your claws and fangs!” His voice was husky, and the words were little more than a whisper, not ferocious enough to frighten a giant reptile.

The dragon’s eyes blazed bright as it emerged from the shadows with a sound like a cauldron boiling over. The creature was huge, titanic, mammoth, colossal, enormous, gargantuan, and every other adjective used to convey great size.

Cullin braced himself, and the hideous monster lunged toward him.

“Let me tell you a thing about dragons, Maurice,” I say. “Something of a natural history lesson.” I crack my knuckles, warming up for the climax.

The prince has washed the dishes to Wendria’s satisfaction, stacking pie pans on the sideboard. Inside the common room of the Scabby Wench, Reeger finishes rousing and chasing off the last customers, while his wife prepares for the next day’s crowd.

The prince turns to me with wide eyes. “You’re interrupting the story
now
?
I don’t want a science lesson! What happened?”

I am pleased to see him finally engrossed in the story. He’s even forgotten about the sloppy, unprincely labor he is performing. “It’s necessary, so you can put everything in context.”

“But . . . but the dragon’s attacking! How did you escape?”

“Patience, boy.” I am unable to stifle my grin. He is wrapped around my little finger. “There’s something you need to know first. Dragons are solitary creatures. Once a dragon has an adequate lair, it rarely comes out of its cave.

“Under normal circumstances, the monster will gorge itself on some cattle, maybe a stray peasant or two, then lie low for a while. Such large reptiles have very sluggish digestive systems. You must have heard stories about giant pythons from the jungles? Once they consume a large meal, they can barely move until they finish digesting it.”

“But what does that have to do with the story?” Maurice asks. “The dragon—how did you get away?”

“Now, son, don’t get so caught up in the tale that you forget all the careful foreshadowing I’ve laid. In addition to the normal terrorizing and devouring this particular dragon had done, it had also devoured five full-grown knights, one after another, all in a matter of days. That might have seemed a feast at first, then gluttony . . . then just an unpleasant duty.”

Prince Maurice wipes his hands on the apron Wendria loaned him. “Ah, now I think I see.”

He grins, and I grin along with him. “But there’s still another twist or turn in the story.”

The gigantic dragon tried to lunge, but it was so gorged and fat that it could barely move. The monster was nearly catatonic after being harassed, knight after chivalrous knight, when all it wanted to do was sleep off its meal.

The lethargic creature snorted a challenge that sounded more like a groan of complaint than actual fury. Its scales were stretched so tight they squeaked as it walked, and the dragon’s belly scraped on the ground.

It was obviously uninterested in devouring yet another knight, but the beast let out a tired growl and prepared to do what it had to do.

Affonyl yelled from the overhang above the cave. “I’ve got it, Squirrel!” She threw her weight into a branch she had shoved under a large boulder, which the earlier explosions had loosened. With a great heave, she pried the rock free. It toppled over the edge and crashed onto the fat dragon’s head, stunning the monster before it could even burp out a small flame toward Cullin.

He stood holding Dalbry’s sword in amazement. The dragon collapsed, groaning, in front of him. Affonyl yelled, “What are you waiting for, Squirrel? Hurry, while it’s still dazed!”

The dragon snorted greenish black smoke. With a cry of vengeance, he ran forward and swung Sir Dalbry’s sword with all his might down on the dragon’s scaly neck. “For Sir Hernon!” He struck again, chipping several scales. “For Sir Morgan!” Another blow knocked a few scales loose. “For Sir Artimo!” At last, his blade struck sensitive flesh, and the dazed dragon flinched. But Cullin focused on his gradual slaying of the monster. “For Sir Jems!” His arms and wrists ached from the repeated blows. “For Sir Tremayne!”

“Not so much for Sir Tremayne,” Affonyl called down.

The dragon had begun to recover enough to snort and lift its head. When it turned toward Cullin, his heart nearly stopped. But he had to finish the job, so he backed up, closed his eyes, and charged forward, sword pointed straight ahead. He thrust the blade in all the way to the hilt in the exposed flesh where he had laboriously dislodged the scales.

Too fat to retreat into the cave in its death throes, the dragon shuddered outside the lair and collapsed.

“Now you’re a real dragon slayer.” Affonyl sprang down from the rocks and bounded across the bones, gravel, and cinders in front of the lair. “Aren’t you supposed to cut off its head?”

“I think so, but I might need some help.” With Sir Dalbry’s unwieldy sword, he struck a mighty blow against the dragon’s neck, but did little damage. This was going to be harder work than he had expected.

Affonyl retrieved Sir Morgan’s battle hatchet and joined him in the task. “We’ll take turns and get this done, but I’ll let you have all the official recognition when you tell Queen Faria.”

Dazed and disbelieving, Cullin stood over the fallen monster. “But you and I did this together. Why would you give
me
the credit?”

She snorted. “So you can get that princess you want so much.”

B
EHEADING THE DEAD
dragon was a more arduous task than slaying the beast had been in the first place (not to mention messy and inglorious). Cullin ruined Sir Dalbry’s sword by hacking through the scales, the still-smoking meat, and the vertebrae. The obsidian-adorned hilt looked fine, and he supposed the older knight could make up an exaggerated tale to explain the notched, bent blade.

Concerned for their friends, although too injured to do any dragon slaying of their own, Reeger and Dalbry made their way back to the lair, where they were relieved to see the task already done. “Rust, Cullin! You killed that dragon all by yourself.”

Affonyl sniffed. “Excuse me? He couldn’t have done it without my help.”

“She’s right.” Cullin chuckled. “Affonyl’s my new apprentice dragon slayer.” Both of them were covered with reptilian blood and several varieties of slime that had oozed out while they took their trophy. Exhausted, Cullin turned to Reeger and the old knight. “We could use some help hauling that dragon head. We’re a team, right—all in this together?”

With an unconvincing apologetic expression, Reeger lifted his splinted arm in its sling. “Sorry, my arm is broken, but I’ll help by keeping a careful watch for other dragons in the vicinity.”

“A wise precaution,” said Dalbry. “No telling how many of those monsters are at large. As for me helping—this is your triumph, young Cullin. I wouldn’t feel right taking any part of the experience from you.”

Reeger did return to camp to retrieve Pony and the still indignant mule. Stubborn but not stupid, the mule realized that it was being led back toward the dragon’s lair, and it did not wish to repeat the previous ordeal. Its eyes went wide and wild, and froth formed at its mouth. But when it saw the beheaded dragon, it decided it had no objection to the changed situation, and placidly snuffled at the ground in search of fresh weeds.

Bringing the reluctant mule had left Reeger spent. He looked gray and ill as the ache of his broken arm got stronger again. “Crotchrust! I hope you have more of that pain medicine, Affonyl.”

“I’ll need to make a new batch. I have more purified guano and bone dust,” she said, “but not much milk of the poppy.”

Reeger winced as he tried to shrug his cockeyed shoulders. “That’ll be fine. It’s probably not an active ingredient anyway.”

The dragon’s head lay with its eyes closed and its black forked tongue lolling out. Even dead, it looked fearsome. The head was as large as Pony.

Dalbry looked at Cullin with paternal pride. “You are now a true dragon slayer—which is more than I can say for myself. You have the monster’s head to prove your victory, and it’s not a stuffed crocodile head either.” The young man felt a warm flush of pride come to his cheeks.

Affonyl added, “This is it, Squirrel—what you always wanted.” But her voice had an edge of disappointment. She turned away from him, looking incomprehensibly stung.

Cullin was disappointed that she couldn’t feel triumphant for him. “Of course, it’s what I wanted, and minstrels will sing about me. It might be one of Nightingale Bob’s greatest hits. Aren’t you happy for me?”

Affonyl sniffed. “I am. Totally delighted.”

Cullin looked at her: blond hair hacked short and sticking out in all directions, dried dragon blood smearing her face and clothes. She was a far cry from the gorgeous princess who had so flirtatiously ignored him in King Norrimun’s court. She was also a far cry from Princess Minima, who wasn’t exactly drab, but not what Cullin was looking for. Nevertheless, Minima was the princess he had won.

Confused by Affonyl’s attitude, he took ropes from Pony’s saddle and fashioned a makeshift harness, tying cords around the dragon’s pointed ears, looping the fearsome horns, securing another rope around its formerly ferocious jaws. He cinched the knots tight, tugging on the cords to make sure they were secure.

He looked up at Dalbry and Reeger, who were both burned and scruffy. Even though neither one was remotely presentable at Queen Faria’s court, Cullin didn’t want to go alone. “Will you accompany me? We can get our story straight by the time we reach the palace.”

Dalbry shook his head. “No, Cullin, this is your victory and, as we have oft repeated, we can’t split a princess. You’ll be settling down now. The palace, the queendom, and Princess Minima—all yours. Henceforth, that will be your lot in life, the dragon-slayer knight and the beautiful princess he claimed as his prize.” The old knight nodded to himself. “Nightingale Bob should be able to work with that.”

Reeger picked at his teeth. “Since you’ll have all the riches of a queendom, you won’t really need the chest of treasure the queen promised. You could share that with your old comrades, cover some of our expenses. Meanwhile, we’ll sell those spare horses, and the tack, see if we can find collectors for the genuine knight memorabilia we don’t need. That should give us enough spending money to make it to Outer Innermiddle.”

“Is . . . is that where you’re going next?”

Dalbry said, “I’ve always wanted to see Outer Innermiddle. But one place is as good as another. You know how it is. We’re just drawing out the dragon business.”

Cullin felt a lump in his throat as he realized how much his life was going to change. As a feral orphaned boy growing up outside a village best known for its killer bees and the honey they made, he’d never dreamed he would marry a princess and rule an entire land (or at least co-rule, depending on how much involvement Princess Minima wanted). A lump formed in his throat.

Dalbry clapped him on the shoulder. “We have enjoyed your company over the years, Cullin. You’ve been a useful part of our business. I’ll miss having a good squire to accompany me into court and brag about my deeds. Fortunately, we now have Affonyl, so we’ll get by just fine.”

Reeger chuckled. “We’ll concoct some good stories for her, too. That girl’s got talent.”

“And imagination,” Affonyl added. “And experience in alchemy, natural sciences, medicine.” She frowned again, glanced at Cullin, then away. “I doubt we’ll miss you at all, Squirrel.”

Now that Cullin thought about it, he wasn’t sure he wanted to settle down. The theoretical goal of killing the dragon, winning the treasure and the princess, had seemed so far-fetched that he hadn’t thought it through. Now he was stuck.

“Maybe we could just leave the dragon’s head here,” he said. “Send a note to Queen Faria informing her that the menace has been taken care of, but that no reward is necessary. We could say that as dragon slayers we’ve been intending to take on more pro bono cases.”

Dalbry crossed his arms over his chest. “That would not be the honorable course, Cullin. All those other knights died trying to win what you want to throw away. You qualify as a knight in your own right now. You must accept both the pedestal and the shackles of honor.”

Affonyl took the ropes that formed a makeshift harness for the dragon’s head, tied them to the mule’s saddle, and gave the knot a hard yank. “Ready to go.”

“What about you, Affonyl?” Cullin said. “Maybe you could come along and—”

“No, I’ll go back to camp, and tend to my two patients. Reeger and Dalbry are seriously injured and need time to heal. But brave Sir Squirrel emerged without a scratch.” She made it sound like an accusation.

Cullin climbed onto Pony’s saddle and took the mule’s leading rope. Reeger said, “Once the mule gets up some speed, it’ll be able to drag that monster’s head through the underbrush.”

Dalbry added, “Better go straight to the castle now. Don’t dawdle.”

“Yes,” Affonyl said, “go claim your treasure and your princess.” She made no further sound, but her sniff of displeasure was implied. She turned back to her two new comrades as Cullin rode into the forest, dragging and bouncing the giant reptilian head behind him.