The Dragon

“What do we want!”

“A dead Dragon!”

“When do we want it?”

“Once an agreeable and equitable resolution on how to kill it presents itself!”

Sir Bernitious sighed. This assembly was lively and good hearted, but lacked a bard’s rhythm. As a knight in Fairlandia, Sir Bernitious slayed Dragons for a percentage of the Dragon’s mountain of gold–this contract specifying, reasonably, an equal share of the gold distributed evenly amongst the townsfolk, plus a ten percent bonus. Dragons, by definition, hoarded gold. Knights, by definition, slayed Dragons. Simple solutions for simple problems, routine as sunsets and moonrises.

Still, experience taught Sir Bernitious successful Dragonslaying required an assembly of townsfolk supporting you.

His patron, Chancellor Finnery lollygagged nearby jovially interacting with townsfolk, edges of his robe still smouldering. It was his duty to keep the crowd in line.

Indeed, all was calm. This was Fairlandia, where knights slayed Dragons as routinely as the Chancellor kissed his wife.

The Chancellor pursed his lips; had they kissed today?

“How do we actually slay a Dragon?” Jostun the farmer said, the sole voice of vexatious worry. His family huddled nearby, their hunger and exhaustion clear.

“The bards say stab its black heart!”

“Ever seen a bard kill a Dragon?”

“Once, but that’s quite an unexpected journey.”

“Bollocks, stab the damn thing before it eats us all!”

“And before we starve! There’s barely flour for a loaf of bread. Bet there’s enough gold for bacon…”

“Kill the Dragon! Kill the Dragon!” the assembly chanted again in agreeable unison. Even Jostun raised his pitchfork…

Rustling metal reverberated in the evening air, and a column of armoured guards appeared.

“Friends! Countrymen! Harken!” a voice barked, hidden somewhere behind the guards. They all bowed, appropriately–it was appropriate to bow to their lord, after all–as Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit The Third strutted forth.

“I have done the impossible–that which only your most humble lord could muster the courage and perspicacity…I met the Dragon.”

A murmuring gasp went up throughout the assembly hall. The slaying of Dragons may be a routine quest in Fairlandia, but speaking with one? This was a right breaking of decorum. Downright madness, verging even on nonsensical folly. Jostun lowered his pitchfork, wondering…wondering if he could have conversed with the Dragon while it burned his fields. He decided it was rather impolite of him not to initiate discourse with the Dragon, and instead flee within the castle’s safety with his family. It bordered on rudeness really.

“The Dragon assures me he never takes more than what’s needed. An amazing bit of humility from a great, powerful Dragon. Afterall, he did not get to be so large by slothishness. Yes, we talked for a long while. Tell me, has anyone assembled here seen a Wren?” Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit said. He paced back and forth, making eye contact with everyone in turn. They answered with glossy, pensive looks on each assembled face.

“Are you aware that instead of gold, Wrens collect children? Horde ‘em up and devour ‘em on a cold winter night. Truly horrible.”

No one assembled had ever seen a Wren, but there were stories aplenty, and they shuddered at the thought of Wrens loose in the village.

From the assembly’s head, Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit continued, “I learned many things, big things, wild things. Did you know Wren’s are attracted to gold?”

Chancellor Finnery remained silent, the idea of interrupting incomprehensible with so many guards around. Sir Bernitious stood detached from the discourse. Glory and gold were his business, not matters of townsfolk.

“Our Dragon’s mountain serves as a shield against these Wrens. It would be downright silly to tear it down.”

Nods of understanding followed. The Wrens were a clear and present danger, obviously. Chancellor Finnery wasn’t fully sure that Wren’s were attracted to gold, but he was equally humble enough to acknowledge he didn’t hold all the world’s wisdom. Maybe the Dragon and its mountain of gold did serve more noble purposes.

“What about our burnt fields?” Someone from the assembly shouted.

Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit smiled brightly as if telling a children’s tale. “We discussed this very topic. Naturally, the needs of my subjects wore heavily on my mind, and the Dragon understands quite a lot. We came to an understanding. One that, I agree, will save our village from both Wren’s and Dragonfire, thus bettering us all.”

Now he had everyone’s full attention, including Chancellor Finnery. “Instead of paying this Knight's assuredly usurious fee, we’ll set out a small tribute, truly tiny really for such a large Dragon. Then, satisfied, it will protect us from the Wrens. No knights needed!”

Jostun scratched his nose, thoughts changing from what he’d say to the Dragon to how he’d manage his fields. His back hurt each and every night, and this plan meant more seed, more coin...

But no fire and no wrens, that seemed important.

”Your service to us humble peasants is exemplary Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit, truly. But would it not be simpler to slay the Dragon? Laden with gold, we could hire an army to protect us from the Wrens,” Chancellor Finnery said, searching for an agreeable solution.

Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit raised a hand, “While I agree it may be simpler, are we an assembly or a mob? Should all voices not be heard? Have we become so uncivil and unbecoming to devolve into summary justice?” Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit said, defiant and resolute.

The mob--retrospectively, they would agree that it was a mob, not an assembly–descended into groveling and unravelled.

The sun set. The moon rose. All lay awake (except Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit the Third–sleep was vital for good Lordship), figuring how they’d till another field, spin another loom, work another forge…

Sleep came, however restless.

Life, seemingly, went on.

***

”Quiet night?”

“Quiet night. Pray, ever seen a Wren in these skies?” Sir Bernitious asked.

“Hmph,” Lord Canstillerbaberyeuxesquit the Third grunted, devouring his morning cake.

There may be little glory in guarding the lord, but there was quite a bit of gold.

Quite a bit.

But matters of townsfolk weren’t Sir Bernitious’s business.