DRAGON BAIT

DRAGON BAIT, by Ray Daley, Art by Karolína Wellartová

 

 

 

In hindsight, I should have realised it was going to happen, sooner rather than later. If I had been able to come to that conclusion, I could have been raking it in, hand over fist.

Of course, it took a knight to notice.

Well, it would be a knight, wouldn’t it? What with being off on quests all the time, so far removed from their true love, they began to see women everywhere they looked. A particularly elegant looking tree?

It soon became a dryad, in their head. An oddly-shaped clump of pondweed as they collected water? Surely some sort of aquatic nymph, no doubt. Anyway, where ever they looked, they saw women.

In times of old, men were bold, horses and mules were nervous. What with the long silky mane and all. Oh, boy!

I really should have followed my father’s advice, before embarking on that quest as Sir Nigel of Mulgrue’s squire. “Get thy hair cut, lad. Otherwise, the chances are thee’ll be mistaken for a fair maiden, then rogered accordingly.”

Mine father was right, a young man such as mine self would certainly catch a knight’s eye before too long, what with being fair of face, tight of calf, round of buttock and long of hair. While the predicted rogering didn’t occur, my long blond hair and I certainly did attract the wrong kind of attention. “Prithee, good squire. What art thy name?”

“Terrence, of Ventress, Lord.”

He looked me up and down, far too many times for my liking. I should have at least tied my hair up, to disguise its length. Then he pointed over to his tent. “Say, lad. Go hither to mine tent, and search within mine travelling chest. I have an cunning plan.”

Questions not to ask a knight, “Why dost thou have an ladies dress in thine travelling chest?” Things not to say after the fact, “Thou art an odd cove, forsooth.”

 

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To be honest, the question I really should have been asking Sir Nigel was, “Why dost this dress fit me exactly, sire?” Not that it mattered, I found out soon enough. Once I had been tied to a rock, as dragon bait.

“Verily, young Terrance. Simply wait here, and scream as loud as thy possibly can, on spotting yon dragon. Nod if you understand?”

He didn’t even hesitate for a moment, before turning around and venturing back to his hiding place. Admittedly, it was no more than twenty paces away, but faced with an dragon, a man travelling twenty paces in full armour can’t arrive to rescue you soon enough.

Suffice to say, the set-up worked exactly how Sir Nigel had foreseen it. Yon dragon spotted an fair maiden, left for the foul beast to feast upon, and verily did it set down, to snack upon mine succulent flesh.

Barely did the poor creature have the chance to take in mine visage, when Sir Nigel rudely introduced the beast to its maker, by way of an sword, driven up under the chin into the brain, ending the dragon instantly. I was duly cut free, given thirty-seven minutes to recover from a case of screaming wild brain fever, then allowed to change back into mine own clothing.

At least I was not rogered. Nor was I eaten by an dragon.

 

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A total of twelve times, did we perform this wild enactment. Myself, taking the role of a tethered fair maiden, helpless and awaiting my grisly demise, and good Sir Nigel, with his sharpest of swords, and strongest suit of armour. Each time, would yon dragon espy mine visage, hither quickly earthwards to consume mine being. And every time, Sir Nigel would end the beast on his blade.

After hours, would we while away our time as we wished. Although I cannot attest for certain, I have the worst suspicion that Sir Nigel and our mule Pippin were conducting a most unnatural series of liaisons within the privacy of his tent every night. Poor creature. But rather it, than myself.

It gave me great cause to make mine own camp much further away from his, until, one evening, their noises of passion drew the wrong kind of attention.

The dragonish kind.

No knight, regardless of his prowess in battle, is ready to defend himself whilst he is in the throes of lovemaking with his favourite mule. Sir Nigel certainly wasn’t. Neither was poor Pippin.

I heard the mighty uproar, and fled from mine tent into the relative safety of the nearby woods. I needn’t have worried though, the beast, having eaten its fill on Sir Nigel and Pippin, made off into a nearby clearing.

And that’s where I found it the following morning.

 

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Dragon’s aren’t stupid creatures. They can speak many languages, as they are extremely long-lived. What they aren’t particularly good at, is flying after a heavy meal. Or flying, once someone has placed many heavy rocks upon their wings. It took me almost an hour to carry those rocks!

When the beast awoke, it soon realised its current situation. “I can’t move.”

I just stood there. “And nor will you, until I free you, beast.”

It simply sniffed, and said, “The name’s Wythyn.”

I maintained a cautious distance. I had heard an ancient legend that dragons were unable to make flame after an hearty repast, but was unwilling to test the truth therein upon mine self. “It’ll be mud, until we decide thy fate, beast.”

The dragon sat, unable to move, while I laid out my master plan. It had no choice but to listen.

 

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We make a nice living, Wythyn and I.

Oddly enough, people never seem to ask how it is that a squire has such a nice horse and tent. Obviously, I removed all of Sir Nigel’s markings from his belongings. I maintain the squire’s tent too. Generally, they don’t want to see the messy business of a slaughtered dragon. On the whole, most villages are happy with the sight of some fresh blood on a sword, that’s normally more than enough to part them with their hard-earned groats.

I can keep my hair as long as I like, I’ve got a dozen different dresses too. And yes, they all fit me perfectly.

I catch small game almost every evening and carry many containers about my person in which to decant their blood. It’s a matter of moments to pour enough blood across the blade to convince my latest clients that I have solved their extremely recent dragon problem.

After that, Wythyn and I move on because we aren’t greedy. A dragon will walk, but it prefers to fly. And when reminded it was recently known to have been murdered near these parts, the stubborn creature will most definitely walk, until far enough away from said previous locale before then retaking to the skies.

Oddly enough, I have never been bothered by the bandits I’m told abound throughout this fair isle of ours. Travelling beneath the shadow of a dragon is enough to put anyone off. Only a complete fool would bother me. I’ve only had to kill two such fools, so far. Wythyn doesn’t seem to mind the flavour of freshly killed fool. I fear we will ply our trade, up and down the byways of this land, until one of us is too old to continue the charade any longer.

Until then, I’m happy to go on being dragon bait. It’s one way to make a living, I suppose!

THE END.

 

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Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he’s been writing since 1986. Tweet him @RayDaleyWriter

 

Karolína Wellartová is a Czech artist, painter creating images predominantly with the wildlife themes, nature studies and the literary characters. She’s mostly inspired by the curious shapes and a materials from the nature, but the main source still comes from literature.

From a young age she tried to express herself and her observations on paper.  Painting and drawing were always the most important thing for her and visiting the local art school helped her understand the new techniques and the science of the colour mediums. She’s the award winning artist for “Best Book Cover in 2015” in Czechia. 

Her work has been published in American magazines such as Spirituality Health Magazine, International Wolf, Metaphorosis, Orion, and Heroic Fantasy Quarterly.  Check out more of her work at her website.