Unlike most of my other stories, this is not based on real events. I wrote it when my in-laws were hosting my family at a hotel in Tiberias. The kids spent their days in the pool, and the hotel had an open bar, though I am mostly sure that had nothing to do with this story. Though maybe it did. In any case, this story is intended to be lighthearted entertainment, something I don’t do well.
I hope you enjoy.
Many years have passed, but tales are still told of the glorious tournament of Growl held in the town of Wumpers in the Jubilee year of King Winifred’s reign. Winifred, a beloved king inexplicably named for his equally beloved mother, held the tournament with the intention of ridding the kingdom of a pesky dragon that had been eating livestock and burning up fields since before he was born. Some said the dragon was ancient, a leftover from a previous age, while others claimed he was an overgrown lizard, a mere hundred years old.
No one could claim to know much about the beast. Few had actually seen the dragon up close since this usually resulted in an unrequested tour of its intestines. The dragon’s appetite required one cow per month, or two fat sheep, after which the dragon would disappear into his mountaintop lair to sleep and digest. The dragon did not, in fact, terrorize the village any more than necessary to keep its belly full. The unpopular ritual of offering up a maiden did not seem to bear results. It did not save on livestock, unless the maiden chosen as a sacrifice was particularly plump, or unless she was lovely and served up with a side-dish of a beefy suitor who fancied himself a hero. History books were replete with cases of how the dragon, even when satiated after such offerings, could still find the energy to lethargically swallow down an offending knight who thought a full belly was the key to successful dragon-slaying. The villagers had long ago concluded the dragon was best left alone, with accompanying losses suffered in silence. The offering up of maidens was an ancient tradition that was slowly fading away.
In any case, Winifred decided that a dead dragon was his key to fame and a place in the history books. Couriers were sent out to the farthest reaches of the kingdom to shout out the royal proclamation inviting all noble young men to prove themselves in single combat, thereby winning the honor of slaying the pernicious dragon. Blacksmiths poured into Wumpers to display their finest armor and their sharpest swords, guaranteeing their wares to be dragon solutions beyond compare.
Strong young men answered the king’s call, coming from far and wide, eager to prove themselves in the tournament. Crowds lined the streets, cheering wildly as the young men rode past on powerful war-horses. Never had the people seen such a display of rippling young muscles poised for combat. Alliances were formed among the contestants, and intrigue filled the air as bets were placed on the winners. Scholars were consulted to determine which young warrior had the best chance, the finest form, the mightiest swing of sword. And wherever such a display of young muscle is put on display, the thick syrup of romance fills the night air, making the crickets chirp a bit louder.
Traveling storytellers prowled the streets, taking notes in flowery language, fully aware that exaggeration was the key to extra coins. They planned on earning their supper for many seasons to come, retelling tales of the pageant in the most colorful terms: how flags filled the city, how the parades were accompanied by music, how the tournament was an unprecedented parade of beauty and strength, the likes of which was never matched before or since.
Storytellers prefer speaking of young men in metal suits, bashing each other while young ladies swoon. This type of story could be told for years to come, earning them a place at the fireside with a large plate of mutton and a mug of ale. But this tournament presented a different story. Though stories of bashing and romance were told for many years after the colorful pageant, the real story concerning the dragon and his demise was never repeated. It was recorded by a royal scribe in the appendix of a reference book kept at the very back of King Winifred’s royal library, but it was never read aloud. The tome, titled ‘Pest control’ is precisely the type of material avoided by storytellers and minstrels. The account is tedious and deals with things kings try to avoid, like work and dirty hands. No one studies the book, and only a few scholars even know it exists. A thick volume, it is difficult to lift from the shelf and even more difficult to read. No one would open the thick leather book on a whim. In fact, many of the pages are nonsensical. The entire point of the book’s existence and its necessary presence in every royal library is the story titled, simply enough, ‘Dragon Removal’: it’s about how dragons really get slain.
The account recorded in the appendix does not mention the tournament. Nary a burly knight, nor a single fair maiden, is mentioned since no knight’s sword touched the dragon and no fair maiden was ever endangered.
The account, in the most basic terms, tells of the arrival of a small cart in Wumpers towards the end of the tournament when all but a few remaining contestants had bashed themselves senseless. Built of hewn wood, sturdy but unassuming, the cart was drawn by a plow horse straining at the yoke. The cart was indeed heavy, but its bulky load was hidden mysteriously under a stained tarp. The filthy old man in rough clothes sitting in the cart allowed the reins to dangle, content to watch the back end of the gray horse plod along. Royal trumpets announced the beginning of the first stage of the tournament, marked by the burning of the effigy dragon, an event the old man and his horse seemed determined to miss.
The old man did indeed miss the opening ceremony, taking a seat at the very top of the bleachers just as the first match of the day began. Two fine young would-be heroes started to whack at each other with great vim and vigor while the crowd roared, urging them on. When they both dropped in exhaustion, judges were consulted, the people shouted out their choice, and a winner was declared. This went on for three more days, and every morning, the old man took his place on the bleachers, watching every match with the same phlegmatic disinterest.
The final day of the tournament finally began with even more pomp and circumstance, and the crowd was at a fever pitch. King Winifred’s heavy gold throne was brought from the palace and stood at midfield so he could personally officiate in the most regal fashion possible. The sun was particularly bright that morning, blinding the crowd as it flashed off the armor of the two finalists poised to bash each other into a stupor. King Winifred waited until the tension was at its peak before he stood, ready to give the word that would begin the final battle. The royal robes billowed in a sudden breeze, and a cloud passed in front of the sun, casting a shadow on the field. A murmur ran through the crowd as first one hand, then more, pointed skyward.
The crowd took one collective breath, gasping as a huge form dropped onto the grass between the two contestants.
It was the first time that anyone present had ever seen the dragon, and the sight of the beast was more than they could bear. Every person there was frozen in fear; every maiden, every child, and every knight. King Winifred suddenly found himself huddling in the mud under the bleachers, his royal crown knocked askew, his golden throne abandoned in midfield. Every person was terrified of the apparition, larger than they had ever imagined, more hideous than they could have dreamed, poised in midfield, considering the people around him as a connoisseur might gaze upon a smorgasbord. Everyone held their breath in fear. All except for one spectator sitting at the very top of the bleachers, gazing upon the dragon with an equally cold and appraising eye.
To be sure, the dragon was big, though not nearly as big as some of the tales claimed he should be. The people had seen pictures in storybooks of dragons straddling mountains or eating pirate ships. The real dragon was not half that large, no larger than a modestly large house. But to see such a creature fly overhead on leather wings, covered in stony scales, to gaze upon his no-nonsense claws, curved and sharp with bits of rotting flesh stuck to them, was quite a bit more than the average person could bear to see up close and in real life.
The dragon also lacked a certain intangible something the storybook dragons all had. In the books, dragons seemed driven by a sinister purpose, a raison de etre that set them at odds with kings, knights, and fair maidens. The best pictures always showed a creature of sinister intelligence gazing balefully at some pure-intentioned savior come to face the embodiment of evil. The oversized lizard that presented itself to the crowd that morning was impressive, but it had none of that. He didn’t look evil, or even sinister. No evil intent could be assigned to his gaze. He simply looked hungry, in the most direct way imaginable.
Without an ‘if you please’, the dragon reached out and grabbed one of the finalists in his left claw before the hapless hero had a chance to take a defensive stance or swing his mighty sword. Before the valiant knight could issue a challenge to the dragon, the lizard plucked off his head with a quick snap of his jaws. The crowd watched in horror as the dragon chewed slowly, the metal helmet crunching between the dragon’s teeth. The remaining contestant hesitated once, and then again, glancing around to see if any other contestants on the field would claim first honors. Finally, on trembling legs, he strode forward, swinging his heavy sword. The blade struck, bouncing off the dragon’s scaly back. The dragon glanced over his shoulder, one bloodshot eye appraising the young knight while his jaws continued their noisy gnashing. His cheeks bulged for a moment as he belched. Young knights clad in armor gave him gas. A peculiar clicking sound came from deep in his chest before flames shot out of his mouth, engulfing the young man in his shiny new armor.
The crowd looked on in horror as they could hear (and smell) the young man sizzle away in his armor-plated oven. The dragon stretched once, towering over the crowd before flapping his wings and rising slowly into the air, three-quarters of a knight clutched in his left claw, and another, cooked medium-well, dangling from his right.
A few moments of silence held the crowd until they suddenly awoke from their nightmare, screaming as they ran back to their homes. After a few minutes, the arena was empty, and King Winifred’s golden throne stood abandoned. All had run for shelter except for one lone figure. The old man sat watching with squinted eyes as the dragon flew away. The horrible sight had not bothered him, and even his plow-horse was unaffected, taking the opportunity to wander onto the jousting field to chew the edges of the scorched grass, pushing at a bloody hand with his nose to get at a particularly succulent patch of clover.
The old man waited a few days. He knew the habits of dragons. He had measured the rate of their digestion and figured it would take several days for one of that size to consume a healthy young man. He had observed their habits and knew the dragon would allow the remains of the other foolish young man to rot inside the armor just long enough to make him succulent. He estimated it would take the dragon a week to finish his feast and digest it enough to be tempted again.
The old man used his last coin to rent a room at the local inn, sipping homemade mead from a wineskin he kept under his pillow. He waited for a whole week, lingering over his meals and sleeping late. The innkeeper was glad to have him, since the streets were empty and the villagers were too scared of the dragon to venture out of their homes.
At the end of the week, he hitched the horse to the wagon and set off for the castle. He drove the wagon slowly, noting that the castle guards were too busy checking the skies to challenge him. He parked the cart in front of the palace and strode in unannounced. The king was alone in the throne-room, sitting on a low stool since no imperial order could convince anyone to go back to the field to fetch his golden throne.
“I’m here to kill yer blinkin’ beast.”
The king stared at him in disbelief. “And who are you?”
“They call me Chiggers, cause I got ‘em. They bite like crazy, and I itch somethin’ fierce, but I hate baths. Truth is, water scares me. I drink mead instead,” the man said, gazing at the king through a veil of shaggy eyebrows. “I’ll kill yer dragon, but it’ll cost ya dear. Twenty gold pieces.”
The king stared at him. “But the winner of the tournament was promised one hundred pieces and the fairest maiden’s hand in marriage.”
Chiggers spat on the marble floor. “I din’t win no blinkin’ tournament, an’ the bloke who did, din’t collect. The on’y way you ever see him agin is if he shows up in yer garden as dragon poop. I’ll get rid of the beast and save you some gold along the way.” He hesitated. “I don’t got much use fer fair maidens, but if ye know a wench who’ll put up wit me an hep wit da field work, I’ll be happy to have her. Otherwise, ya can treat me ta some palace mead when I get back. I’ll be here when the deed’s done to collect my gold.”
The king was shocked but figured he had no choice if he was to retrieve his golden throne from the tournament field. “If you are still alive, then I will happily pay double your price and treat you to the best mead in the palace cellars.”
Chiggers grunted. “Ha! We’ll see.” He eyed the king with a shrewd gaze. “I wants it in writing.”
The king was taken aback. “A king’s word is inviolate. I have promised the gold, and upon delivery of the dragon’s head, you will receive it in full measure.”
Chiggers stood staring at the king, making him squirm on his stool until he finally called for the royal scribe. The king began to dictate, but Chiggers jumped in, dictating the terms in less flowery, more direct language. He eyed the document, squinting to read the fine print, borrowing the scribe’s quill to scratch out a line and add his initials, painfully scrawled at the bottom of the page. He handed the signed contract to the king and waited while the wax was melted and the royal seal applied. The parchment went into an oily pouch that disappeared inside Chiggers’ shirt.
Without another word to ask the king’s leave, Mr. Chiggers (as the document had named him) turned and left the palace. Soldiers surrounded his wagon, reluctant to approach because of the horrible stink. The stench didn’t bother Chiggers, as he hopped up onto his seat and clucked at his horse, which leaned into the traces and began to pull.
The wagon traveled in the direction the dragon had taken after munching on half a knight. Chiggers was not a learned man, but he knew that dragons lived in caves and preferred mountaintops that were difficult for men to approach. He came to the nearest mountain and spied out a likely cave high up on the northern side of the cliff. From his pack, he pulled a bundle of rags which he quickly untied, revealing his most precious treasure: a brass telescope bought second-hand from a retired mariner. It was an antique and had seen years of hard service, but it still served him well. Gazing at the distant peak, Chiggers inspected the cave, spotting telltales a less experienced eye would have missed. A few bones littered the entrance to the cave, and the roof was blackened with soot. Assured he had found the spot, he tossed a bundle of dry grass in the air to check the wind. He walked his horse cart a few hundred yards further north, adjusting his position, carefully situating the wagon precisely upwind from the dragon’s lair.
Freeing his old companion as a courtesy, he allowed the animal to graze, secure in the knowledge that the aged beast wouldn’t run away. If his plan succeeded, he would use some of the king’s money to buy oats for the old horse. If he erred even the slightest, the dragon would have a double feast that day, eating horse and man together. Chiggers knew more about dragons than any man alive, but two things he still didn’t know. He didn’t know if dragons preferred their meals young and strong, delivered in steel boxes, or if it was simply that the young and foolish were more readily available than any other meal. The other mystery that kept Chiggers worrying late into the night was what it felt like to be eaten by a dragon. The many possible answers troubled him deeply. He disliked dragons more than anything else in existence, but Chiggers was a poor farmer, in both money and skill. He needed the occasional supplement of gold from desperate kings who had run out of heroes but still needed a dragon to be killed.
Chiggers pulled aside the tarp, revealing the bloated carcass of a cow that had died in his field the day before the tournament. It was a sore reminder that Chiggers was not a diligent farmer. Unfit to eat, the cow’s death would replace all that his poor skills at animal husbandry had lost. The remains stank fiercely, but Chiggers didn’t need to attend to it. He knew that dragons could not resist a rotting cow. He had already prepared the carcass, an unpleasant but necessary task. Rough stitches made a jagged line down its belly.
He removed a pickaxe and shovel from the wagon and began to dig a low ditch. Struggling to drag the dead cow from the wagon, he wrestled the stinking carcass so that it was poised precisely over the shallow trench, ready to tip over into the hole. His last bit of preparation was to check his most essential piece of equipment. If it failed at the critical moment, Chiggers knew he would discover the answer to his second question.
He pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it, watching the tiny flame dance in the breeze for a few moments before letting it die. Again, he spun the flint and felt reassured as the fire leaped to life. It was a marvelous device, mechanically simple and inexpensive. It seemed out of place and time, but it was a basic item required by tradesmen and housewives, so it existed. Knights mocked such modern methods as unchivalrous. Kings abhorred lighters since they lacked grace and style, and they usually had a servant on hand whose sole duty was to light the king’s pipe. Chiggers bore their ridicule with equanimity. He didn’t care for chivalry or grace. Kings, knights, and maidens valued honor above all else, but when enough fields burned, enough livestock was stolen, and enough commoners were snatched away by ravenous dragons, even kings suffered Chiggers and his graceless methods. Two more times, he checked the lighter before he was assured the tool would not fail him. He tied a loop of string to the lighter and slipped it around his neck. Dropping into the trench and lying down, he grasped the stinking carcass and toppled it on top of himself.
Chiggers was uncomfortable in the stuffy hole. There was not much air in the tight space, and the stink of dead meat made breathing even more difficult. It was at this point in the job that Chiggers always cursed himself for not mastering agriculture, never learning a trade, or not being born into a wealthy family, as so many idiot kings had the sense to do. Lying in a hole stinking of flesh, Chiggers longed for life. He was sick of farming, but more than that, he was sick of lying under dead cows waiting for dragons.
This dragon proved to be blessedly impatient, and in less than two hours, Chiggers felt something heavy slam into the dead cow that covered him. Instinctively, he grabbed the lighter and spun the flint. Sparks flew, but the instrument failed him at the critical moment, and no flame appeared. The carcass began to rise into the air, and Chiggers saw the enormous wings flapping overhead, growing smaller as the dragon carried home its savory find. He was about to flick the lighter for a second try, but the thin thread, the fuse leading to the sack of dynamite sewn into the gut of the cow, was already out of reach. Chiggers’ method allowed for one attempt, and that opportunity had flown away.
As the rotting cow rose higher, Chiggers realized that all was indeed lost. He had no money to buy another carcass for a second try. As he watched the dragon struggle with its unexpectedly heavy meal, Chiggers considered using the horse for a second attempt, killing it and waiting a few days until the meat would be ripe and enticing to dragons. For sentimental and practical reasons, he rejected that course of action. Replacing his horse would cost him money, and he had already invested enough in this venture. The dragon was one hundred yards away, flying slowly, when Chiggers chose his only course of action, one that caused him to curse under his breath.
He positioned himself several dozen yards from the wagon and began to yell, waving his arms wildly. The dragon glanced back over his shoulder and his bloodshot eye considered the ragged man. Chiggers met the dragon’s cold stare. If the evil beast chose to finish it quickly, a quick blast of hellfire would end Chigger’s life and his career. The dragon hesitated, reconsidering. It turned, pivoting slowly in midair. Again, Chiggers yelled with all his might, issuing a challenge he had no hope of living through. The dragon raised the cow’s carcass to its mouth, spreading wide its maw full of teeth to swallow it whole.
Chiggers shouted a third and final time. He smiled as he heard the odd clicking sound. A lick of dragon flame curled from the dragon’s mouth, growing as the dragon dove towards the insolent man-thing.
Chiggers closed his eyes, not wanting to look directly into the eyes of his own approaching death. He didn’t see the explosion, but the blast threw him back into the hole he had emerged from just a few moments ago. Again, he was covered with dead animal flesh. The cow’s carcass was spread all over the valley, blasted into tiny pieces. Chiggers grunted as he heaved the smoking skull from the now-dead dragon off of his body. The dragon-flesh stunk of burned flesh. It was not rotten like the cow, but it was still unappealing. Chiggers had once tasted dragon meat out of curiosity, but it was disgusting, clearly not intended for human consumption.
The dragon’s head was half destroyed, which was plenty good for his purposes. It was still quite heavy, and Chiggers wished he could afford an assistant for this part of the job. After much sweat and a few more curses, the trophy was finally loaded, and Chiggers went to find the horse.
Returning from slaying a dragon would have been the time for the hero to gloat in his victory, but Chiggers preferred to drink the last wineskin of homemade mead he kept under the cart’s bench to calm his nerves now that the unpleasant job was done. He was as bad at brewing mead as he was at farming, but he instinctively knew the king would forget his offer of the finest mead in the palace cellar as soon as he discovered the kingdom was rid of the dragon. Previous experience had taught him that after his job was completed, Chiggers’ presence at the palace would be an embarrassing reminder of how the royal court had failed, and he would not be welcome. He was sure that some shrewd court adviser responsible for the day-to-day business of running the kingdom would take note of what had happened, but Chiggers knew he would be urged to depart as quickly as possible. Chiggers just hoped the king wouldn’t renege on the bargain, signed or not. He had haggled with too many royal treasurers who seemed to think that twenty gold pieces were too much to pay for a dragon’s head, especially one that had been blown apart by enough dynamite to remove a good-sized stump from a field.
Chiggers winced as he sipped at his sour mead, watching the haunches of the horse plod slowly along. He was in no hurry. There were days when lying under dead cows was preferable to dealing with royalty.
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