by Sean Gibson
Fun fact: it turns out that Borg is at least as good of a seamstress as Madame Mona La Fleur. (Seamster? I have no idea what the gender-proper way to say that is when the one doing the sewing is a man…or, at least, a rock giant; maybe seamgiant? It’s telling that a word can be so gendered that you don’t know what the male-equivalent might be…)
(Who’s Madame Mona La Fleur? Seriously? How do you not know the premier fashion designer in Pairicee? She’s so skilled she once designed a ball gown for a beholder—and it looked good! Do you know how hard it is to accommodate twenty-three eye stalks and a round, floating body? I mean, sure, the beholder lost her cool that evening and ended up vaporizing three bartenders, but, still—she looked fabulous.)
By the time he finished—which, not surprisingly, was about a week later—we looked incredible. Even Whiska looked presentable, though she had managed to capture, roast, and consume a possum just before donning her new wardrobe and still had the creature’s tail sticking out of her mouth like some grotesque parody of a toothpick, which didn’t exactly scream haute couture.
“Not bad,” said Rummy with a grin as he surveyed his outfit, which included numerous hidden pockets and pouches to facilitate his prestidigitating. “Not bad at all—you’ve got a real gift, Borg.”
“You really do,” said Nadi as she admired her outfit, a simple, functional, supple mix of wool and leather that would stand up to rough wear. “I had no idea you could do this.”
“All rock giants…can sew,” replied Borg.
“Really?” asked Whiska.
“Yes. We have…contests.”
“Then why do you dress like idiot barbarians wearing nothing more than flimsy loin cloths?”
“We get…warm easily. And…we look good…naked.”
“Well, can’t argue with that, mainly because then things would get awkward,” said Rummy cheerfully.
“To Skendrick, then?” I said.
“To Skendrick,” said Nadi with a nod. “Thanks, Borg.” She hoisted her pack and said, “Let’s go!”
To hear the bards tell it (or, at least, this bard tell it—and, let’s face it, she’s the only one who matters, since she wrote the tale), the people of Skendrick gathered in the town square and gave the mighty band of adventurers a rousing hero’s welcome. In reality, one bored gate guard who didn’t remember us and seemed only vaguely aware of the fact that the town had been beset by dragon attacks waved us into town before turning his attention to the far more important task of dealing with some dirt underneath his fingernails.
Fortunately, it just so happened to be the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, the one time during the week when the town council met whether it needed to or not. We headed straight for the town hall (save for a quick stop at a bakery for some kellgaso) and Nadi pounded on the door.
A moment later, Alderman Wooddunny himself answered. “Yes, ah, can I help you folks?” He gave us a quizzical look. Recognition slowly dawned on his face. “Why, you’ve returned!” he said brightly. He blinked, and his face fell. “You didn’t encounter the dragon, did you?” he asked, implicit in his tone the fact that we surely would not have survived the encounter.
I pushed past him and into the town hall where an assemblage of idiots awaited me. I rubbed my hands together and smiled—I was in my element.
“Good people of Skendrick!” I called out to the dozen councilmembers, most of whom looked bored, asleep, or murderous (or some combination thereof). “As promised, I, Heloise the Bard, renowned throughout Erithea for my peerless voice, unmatched bravery, and abundant virtue—well-earned acclaim for almost half of those qualities, I might add—have returned with joyful tidings. The brave band of heroes you engaged to slay the terrible and mighty dragon that has plagued your town lo these many years—”
I was interrupted by an unintelligible (and angry) shout of, “Haen’t bin boot sivin moonths sence th’ vile wyrm f’st spewed fir aboot all ‘n sundry!”
“Farmer Benton?” I said, trying to recall the moron’s name.
“Aye.” He touched his straw hat. A tiny pig squealed in his lap. An old woman snorted and said something under her breath. In response, Farmer Benton shouted, “Crone!” The tiny pig squealed again.
“Now, now—Farmer Benton and Widow Gershon, please…our esteemed heroes have returned.” Alderman Wooddunny smiled at me. “Please, ah, continue, Miss the Bard.”
“As I was saying,” I said pointedly, “before being so rudely interrupted by tomorrow morning’s bacon, we have returned, and we bring great tidings!”
I looked around the room, expecting jubilant shouts, or at least a high five or two. Silence. Alderman Wooddunny gave me an encouraging smile and motioned for me to keep going. “We’re eager to hear your news. Pins and, ah, needles, as it were,” he said, looking around at his bored fellow councilmembers.
“You seriously can’t guess what I’m about to say?” I said.
One councilmember fell off his chair, snorting himself awake in the process.
“Just tell them,” said Nadi, exasperated.
“Fine. We’ll skip the preamble. All right, pay attention, people—here’s the deal: you had a dragon problem, now you don’t.” (I chose my words carefully.)
“Meaning?” said a young, serious-looking woman who was one of the few paying attention; if only her intellect matched her focus.
“Meaning,” I said with exaggerated patience, “that we took care of the problem. The dragon won’t attack anymore. You’re free from oppression. Mission accomplished. Heckuva job. Huzzahs all around. All that sort of thing.”
“Do you mean to say,” said the Alderman slowly, his eyes widening, “that you’ve, ah, actually slayed the dragon?”
“Like I said,” I replied, “we took care of it. You’re safe now.”
It took a moment, but, finally, at long last, cheers exploded throughout the room (well, “exploded” might be a less accurate description than “wheezed”), punctuated by a shout of “Harlot!” from the Widow Gershon (I think it was directed at me, but I’m not entirely sure).
“How?” asked the Alderman. “How did you do it? I thought that you had no chance.” He grimaced. “Er, that is to say, that the, ah, dragon was a formidable foe, and that—”
“Save it, Wooddunny,” I said. He looked taken aback. I didn’t particularly care. “Your concern for and confidence in us was overwhelming. Truly.”
A young girl stood up and gave me a suspicious look. “What proof do you have? How do we know you even saw the dragon?”
“Betty Sue makes a good point,” said the Alderman, though his tone was conciliatory. “It’s not that we doubt you, mind you—it’s just that, ah, it’s truly an extraordinary accomplishment to slay a dragon, especially one as powerful and vile as the one that has plagued our fair town.”
“Village!” shouted Farmer Benton.
“Whatever!” responded the exasperated Alderman. “Gods! You people really need to get a life.” He took a deep breath as he marked the scandalized looks on the faces of his constituents. “Now then,” he said, his tone somewhat contrite, “we really are incredibly grateful for your, ah, assistance in our most dire hour of need, and we would love nothing more than to celebrate—and spread word of—your feat far and wide and burnish the legend of your hearty band of warriors.”
“But you need to put your money where your mouths are,” said Betty Sue. “We’re not all as stupid as he looks,” she said, gesturing to Farmer Benton. Farmer Benton didn’t respond, though the piglet squealed meekly in his defense.
“Funny you should phrase it that way,” said Whiska with a wolfish grin. She pulled out a large, heavy-looking sack, dropped it on the ground, and it tipped over, spilling gold coins and jewels across the floor. The good people of Skendrick had played right into our hands.
“It’s no secret,” I said as I stepped forward and began to pace back and forth in front of the assembled council, “that when our merry little band rolled into Skendrick, we were
, well, short of funds.”
“It’s true,” said a solemn, middle-aged man who sat next to Farmer Benton. “That one there”—he pointed to Whiska—“she asked me for a coin to purchase a small beer. Threatened to explode my bowels, she did. Waved her fingers and muttered some ancient curse, and I felt my guts turn to water. I gave her the coin, and she laughed.” He shook his head. “She’s an evil, powerful wizard. But a destitute one, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, for the love of—I didn’t do anything to the loose-boweled idiot,” grumbled Whiska. “I made up a few words and wiggled my fingers at him and he shat himself. And then he gave me a coin.” She knelt down, picked up a coin, and flipped it to the man. “Here—I’m paying you back tenfold. Also, your village’s small beer tastes like your loose bowels.”
“Town!” shouted someone.
“How do you know what his stool tastes like?” asked Rummy innocently.
“The point,” I said, forcing everyone to focus on me once again (we bards excel at that), “is that we did not have heaps of treasure when we arrived. Now, however, we do.” I gestured to the bag Whiska had tossed down. “Whiska?”
Whiska pulled out five more sacks of treasure that she placed next to the first. For good measure, she tipped them all forward and let them spill across the floor.
“And that’s only half of it,” I said. I reached into my own pouch and pulled out a massive gold coin—a real one—and handed it to Alderman Wooddunny. “Take a bite of that, my good man.”
He looked confused. “Is it chocolate?” He picked at the sides, trying to find the edge of a wrapper.
“No,” I said in a display of infinite patience, “it’s just that some people test whether or not a coin is made of gold by biting on it. Gold, as you may not know, not having an abundance of it, is a soft metal.”
Alderman Wooddunny nodded and bit hard on the coin. “Ouch,” he said. He grimaced. “That tastes terrible.”
“It’s not supposed to be a tasty treat, sir,” I said, somehow keeping the exasperation from my voice. I really am a paragon of magnanimous virtue. “It’s supposed to be worth a lot of money. Which it is.”
The alderman nodded. “It is a rather, ah, magnificent specimen of coin. Though now it, ah, has teeth marks in it.”
“I’m going to go ahead and connect the dots for you, especially that guy over there, who looks like he might struggle to count to twenty-one even when he’s naked.” I pointed to a gentleman in the corner whose default facial expression was perplexed befuddlement. “We came here without treasure. We went out to slay a dragon. The dragon had a lot of treasure. We now have a lot of treasure. Oodles. What do you think that means?”
“Well,” said the Alderman, “it appears that you may have, ah—”
“Oh, and we have this—show them, Borg,” I said, smiling (perhaps a little smugly).
Everyone stared at Borg for a moment; Borg stared back. Finally, he very deliberately removed his pack, sat it on the floor, opened it up, rummaged around inside, and withdrew a flat, red, shiny, metallic object that was vaguely circular and about a foot wide. He held it up and pointed at it. “It’s a…dragon scale.”
(How, you ask, had we gotten a dragon scale? Turns out that dragons shed them pretty regularly, so it wasn’t all that much of an imposition for Melvin to root around on the ground of her lair and find one to give us. It was actually quite pretty to look at, which almost made up for the fact that we were carrying around someone’s dead, sloughed off skin. Okay, fine—we weren’t carrying it, but, hey—Borg volunteered.)
Finally, Skendrick’s best and brightest issued a collective gasp. “You’ve really, ah, done it!” shouted Alderman Wooddunny, beaming. “You’ve actually managed to defeat the dragon!”
“Ye kin nae argue aught wi’ a right piece o’ the bodkin, kin ye there, hamenpig?” roared Farmer Benton, clutching his pig tighter and eliciting a strangled squeal.
(I sincerely hope that’s the only time I ever have to write the words “clutching his pig tighter.”)
Various other slightly—slightly—more coherent exclamations abounded. After much back patting and an occasional shout of “Touching flesh is the devil’s playground!” from the Widow Gershon, the excitement subsided and everyone returned to their seats.
“We, ah, owe you a great debt of gratitude,” said the Alderman.
“Yeah, not bad,” said Betty Sue, nodding approvingly. “How did you do it?”
“Well,” I replied, “let’s just say we can be pretty persuasive. With our weapons, I mean.” I held up my knife. “We are killers, through and through.” I felt some commotion behind me and turned to see Rummy, who had picked up one of the spilled coins and was making it disappear and reappear, much to the delight of Farmer Benton (Betty Sue looked bored). I cleared my throat and glared at him; he shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Yes indeed—pure killers.”
“How can we ever thank you?” said Alderman Wooddunny, his eyes on the sacks of treasure. “Perhaps we might build an everlasting memorial to your, ah, legendary achievement, though, given the economic hardship we’ve endured over the course of the dragon’s reign of terror, we could, of course, use some, ah, seed money to build a monument worthy of your, ah, greatness.” He nodded his head toward the coins scattered across the floor.
“No!” shouted Whiska. “It’s mine—all mine, you hear?” She started scooping up every last loose coin…except for those that, unfortunately, had started to disappear.
“Hey,” I shouted loudly, trying to draw everyone’s attention away from the rather incriminating evidence that we did not, in fact, possess copious quantities of treasure and, as such, may not have actually slain a dragon. “A memorial! Wow! What a great idea. That would be flattering, and not the first time someone’s suggested such a tribute to me, you know—wink, wink. Don’t you hate it when people say ‘wink, wink’ instead of just winking? It’s obnoxious. You need to make sure to get my good side when you build it—no, no, I’m kidding! They’re all good sides. Can’t go wrong—not a bad one in the bunch. Should I be holding my lute or a knife? Hmmm…that’s a good question. Not sure who asked that one. I did? I suppose I did. I guess we only ask ourselves the toughest questions, don’t we?” I shook my head and blew out a deep breath. “I think the bottom line is that this backside really deserves to be immortalized. ‘Bottom line’—see what I did there? Backside? Bottom?”
Finally, Whiska had secured all of the coins (those that hadn’t disappeared, anyway) and had stuffed them back into the sacks.
“Well then,” I said in a slightly quieter, less crazy tone of voice. “Your village is safe. No more dragon attacks. We will, of course, take under advisement your exceedingly generous offer to fund our own memorial and give it proper consideration.”
“Just a minor point,” said Rummy, raising his index finger, “but both you and the Alderman called it a ‘memorial’ when I think you meant ‘monument.’ I’m pretty sure you only put up memorials for dead people.” He looked around. “Fortunately for us, I think we’re all still alive.”
“Most of the people in this room won’t be for long if we don’t get a drink,” muttered Whiska.
“Yes, let us, ah, supply our conquering heroes with, ah, libations of a celebratory nature,” proclaimed the Alderman, bringing his gavel down to officially (and mercifully) bring to a close the council session.
“Harlots!” shouted the Widow Gershon one last time, just for good measure.
And so we drank and ate and drank and drank some more and ate and then drank a little more. The people of Skendrick seemed genuinely grateful for our help and suitably impressed that we had actually killed a dragon. Betty Sue kept giving me the sideways stinkeye—I think she knew that something wasn’t quite right—but the nice thing about children, as a giant friend of mine once said, is that they’re as easy to ignore as they are to eat.
The celebration did, in fact, last for three days, and by the time it was over, every single person in Ske
ndrick had promised to sing the group’s praises to anyone and everyone they met, ensuring, at the very least, the start of a formidable reputation. Considerably more than that would be needed, though, to spread Nadi’s band’s reputation far and wide (and to further convince the public that the dragon had, in fact, been killed), namely an epic tale told by a highly skilled bard, one that would be beloved and sung by other bards by virtue of its infectious melody and rhythm, compelling action and colorful characters, and the persuasive charms of its impossibly intelligent and gifted author.
It’s hard to believe that we just marked the fifty-year anniversary of that celebration in Skendrick. It’s a relief that I can now, at long last, tell the story behind the story.
I wrote the epic tale you’ve heard so many times at your favorite local tavern for two reasons: to burnish the reputation of Nadi’s band (which, incidentally, worked remarkably well) and to uphold our end of the bargain with the dragon by dissuading would-be treasure hunters from seeking out her lair so that she could finally get some peace and quiet.
I always wanted to tell the real story, though, which, frankly, I find more interesting, and not just because I play a central role. (Though, let’s face it—that would make any story more interesting; just wait until you hear about the shenanigans I’ve gotten into lately with my new adventuring partner, Grimple, a hill giant who, through numerous acts of stupidity, got turned into a sickly gnome, and the insanity we had to go through to get him cured of that condition…coming soon from the same disreputable publisher as the book you now hold in your hands.) No, the real story is more interesting because it shows the human side of adventuring.
It occurs to me that “human” is actually a terrible adjective to describe an adventuring group that included an elf, a Ratarian, a rock giant, and a half-dwarf/half-halfling. Let me try that again.
