In Days of Vast Daring

I

     Grummore could feel the cold seeking out his bones like an old, familiar friend. He was reminded of a similar dawn more than forty years past. He remembered how the fog had drifted across the beach that morning, with a lazy somnolence that came through the trees as if the cold hand of Death had followed them back from the shores of Benwick. 

    Aye, and a day I’d sooner than rather forget, the way this fog is seeping through me now—just as it was then.

    He looked up as the mist folded itself around the trees, suddenly shuddering as if they were a part of that same memory. Still, their height and girth reminded him of Modred’s knights coming out of what could only be described as a visceral fog—their numbers magnified by the sun and shadows behind them—even as Grummore watched the last remaining stars fade with the coming dawn. The night was melting into a soft sapphire blue that was broken instantly by the memory of frenetic screams and terrifying menace thundering across the beach. 

    He looked away, rubbing the ruddy stump that had once been his right leg. He found himself thinking about that day more often now, as the years went by, and it seemed that the only thing that brought him back to reality was the reminder that it had been more than forty years in the past.

    He waited a moment before tightening the leather straps holding his wooden leg in place. Cinching the straps tighter, he told himself to forget about the past and think about what lay ahead. He looked at the hoar frost painted on the trees, glowing like dimly lit candles in the frozen landscape.  He pulled the belt tighter and winced.

    And am I too old to be traipsing across the countryside, as the boy says?

    He was still looking at his wooden leg as he shook his head in answer to the question he didn’t want to ask himself. He knew he’d ignore every bit of common sense that told him it was time to settle down. Again. He knew that would never happen. He’d make sure they’d set off again as soon as the boy woke up—it was his own stubborn nature that would make certain they did, he told himself. 

    He heard the horses whinnying—skittering nervously while stomping at the hard-packed snow—and it brought him back to where he was. He picked up the feedbags at his feet as a dark shadow passed over the small camp. He looked up. There was nothing to see except large cumulus clouds roiling on top of each other; still, there was a sense of unease about the whole thing and he told himself he was being a foolish old man.

    Perhaps Death’s hand is finally reaching out for me?

    He stood up with slow deliberation, feeling his age as he hobbled through the snow. He tied a feedbag around the first horse’s head, patting the animal gently and nuzzling his whiskered cheeks against its neck. He breathed in the animal’s rich scent and let his mind wander as he walked to the second horse.

     I’m definitely too old for this. 

     He could feel his age in the phantom itch of his missing leg, just as he could feel it in the shivering cold around him, or whenever he paused to consider the landscape and how much of it was lost under the frozen snow. Age is nothing more than a reminder of everything we’ve lost, he told himself, and whenever he broke the ice on the water bucket in the morning he wondered how many more winters he’d have to live through. It got so, that whenever the wind swept down from the North and threatened to blow more snow and misery into his already miserable life, he’d offer a silent prayer to a god he no longer believed in, wondering just how many more winters he’d live to see. 

     Pulling his bearskin robe tight around himself, he turned away from the horses and hobbled toward last night’s fire, hoping he might stir it back to life. He knelt in front of it, feeling the warmth of the embers against the cold of his skin and began by throwing wood shavings on top of the white ashes, bringing the stagnant flames back to life. The heat felt good against his cold cheeks.

    As he blew on the fire, he looked up at the tattered flag on top of the pole Ector jammed in beside the wagon’s seat. For a moment, it made him think of what his life used to mean; so many things used to mean so much to him. The pole once served as his lance. 

    The flag’s a sad reflection of what it’s supposed to be.

    “Trucido Draconis, indeed,” he said, the sound of his voice a hoarse whisper in the silence of the camp. 

    It was a different world back then, a different time; it just disappeared too soon. 

    He remembered seeing the last of the Roman legions breaking camp and leaving for Londinium when he was still a lad. The warlords who followed, built fortresses of their own, gathering armies of brigands and Pagan mercenaries so that by the time he could call himself a man, the world had plunged itself into darkness, wallowing in the madness that followed. He shook his head at the memory. When the call went out for the Picts and the Warlords to unite and face a common foe—what did they leave behind? 

    They left the dead where they fell and burned the crops, that’s what they did for us. Death, disease, and famine, that’s always been the answer.

    He picked up last night’s stew and hung the pot on the hook over the fire. He was about to stir the stew with the stick he used for the fire but hesitated. He looked at the stick, wiping the charred end of it on his bearskin robe before he stirred the stew. He wouldn’t eat much, and if he found a hair in it or a burned cinder, it wouldn’t make that much difference. He put the stick down and limped to the back of the wagon where Ector lay inside, still asleep.

    How can anyone sleep for that long?  

    He moved the battered shield to the side and untied the tarp covering the back of the wagon. It made him cold just looking at the boy. With the deer hide thrown off to the side, Ector had nothing but a homespun blanket keeping him warm. 

     How can he not be cold? 

    Grummore pulled his bearskin robe tighter around himself before reaching into the wagon and picking up his broadsword, along with his bow and quiver. He threw the deer hide over Ector again, thinking he’d let the lad sleep while he went out to gather more firewood. He tied the wagon’s tarp closed again before putting the shield back in place. The fire was crackling by then and the small cast iron pot hissing like a cat. He quick-stepped a limp back to the fire and stirred the stew again, tasting it off the tip of the stick and nodding to himself. 

    It needs more salt, and we have none.  

    Strapping his broadsword around the bearskin robe he picked up the bow and quiver. The thought that there might be a game about was never far from his mind. He took up the wicker pannier he used for gathering firewood and kicked the fire down before hobbling across the small camp. He followed the frozen wagon ruts from the night before and made his way into the misty forest. 

    As always, he couldn’t help thinking about the days of his youth as he limped through the misty glade. The ice shone like crystals from the surrounding branches, their colours reminding him of the lights hanging in Camelot’s throne room. Entering the forest, he pushed the branches aside and listened to the soft crunch of the snow under the footpad of his stump. Something about that smoking mist reminded him of the past, and even though he tried not to think about it he knew there was no escaping it. But he wasn’t the sort of man set to relive the days of yore for the sake of his sanity—where was the sanity in that? At eighty-two, there was little left in this world to comfort him and less he wanted to dote over. His wife died thirty-three years ago—the plague they told him even as they bled her white—and when his son and daughter-in-law died after, he found himself caring for his three-year-old grandson, Ector. 

    Forty-nine, he thought. Seven years was all the time they’d had together. Seven years. And me, riding across the land with no thought of her, or the wee ones. But there’s nothing there for you now, is there, he asked himself. He remembered how they told him to burn the cabin. They wouldn’t even let him bury her—and that was after he’d agreed to pay for the Catholic Litany for her. 

    Damned Papists. 

    It was easier leaving everything behind than he thought it would. He supposed it had to do with losing everything the first time; it made losing it again is easier to accept.

    “Everything except her,” he said under his breath. 

    He remembered his father telling him: life had a way of slipping away from you, and when it’s gone, it doesn’t leave you with anything more than a handful of memories. He was beginning to think the old man was right. What he didn’t expect was that they’d be the kind of memories he’d be second-guessing the rest of his life. 

    I should’ve died with the lot of them.

    He felt the stump of his leg sink into the frozen loam and the leather strap around his thigh snap tight; he pulled at it unconsciously. 

    He drew the broadsword out of its rusty scabbard, relishing at the feel of grating metal through the softness of his bony hands, and began hewing and hacking at the branches of the trees around him as if they were the arms and legs of a foregone conclusion. With the snow on the branches sifting through the air and hanging around him like a shroud, he began dropping wood into the pannier and all the while thinking it was easier lopping off the limbs of an enemy. 

    Ah, but that was another life before I lived my real life.

    And almost as suddenly he came across a clearing where there stood the most majestic stag he’d ever seen. It seemed an eternity before either the man or the animal saw each other, and Grummore wondered how the animal didn’t hear him as he chopped his way through the trees. The stag had its head down, oblivious to everything around it as it chewed the frost-laden underbrush. At Grummore’s approach, the animal raised its head, staring him down as the light stole in through the woods, surrounding the animal in a brilliant aura. It was tall and majestic, a beautiful animal—the antlers as fine a pair as any he’d ever seen. 

    It’s the self-same beast the Merlin showed us sixty years ago. 

    Grummore smiled at the memory. Instead of being red-coated like the stag in front of him, the Merlin had shown them a white stag—so white it almost looked silver in the distance. Pellinore called out a name and said that it held his future; he called it The Questing Beast and rode after it in a chase. Grummore half expected to hear the baying of hounds breaking through the forest, and Pellinore behind in close pursuit.

    As Grummore straightened to his full height the beast raised its head, staring at him. He moved, and the animal bolted through the underbrush, bounding through the thickets as quick as the morning’s mist and leaving nothing behind but a few steaming droppings. 

    Grummore sighed, and sitting on a fallen log began rubbing his tortured thigh. 

    “Now that was a beast worth questing,” he told himself. 

    He wondered if any man alive was worthy enough to take on such a quest—a real quest, he reminded himself—not the make-believe quest he told the boy they were following. He was the last of a generation, but his life was less than memorable, he thought. The history of his youth was already falling into legend—and knowing that if he was going to be remembered for anything it would be an embarrassment to the legend, he wondered why it no longer bothered him that his quest was for a beast no one had seen in a hundred years.

    I used to think that a man needed more; that I needed more. Whatever happened to that man?

    He could see it in the eyes of the children whenever they found the nerve to finally approach him. It was there whenever they touched his battered shield, or his blemished broadsword, even the tattered armour he’d once taken such pride in. They laughed outright at the two old horses pulling the wagon, as much as they scoffed at the limp flag and the fading words on the side of the tarp. 

    “Trucido Draconis,” he’d call out at them with a shaky voice, and then he’d struggle with the pole and flag—all in an attempt to strike a regal pose. 

    “Dragon Slayer,” he’d meant to say, but of late the pole was sticking and Ector had to help him.    

    And when did I start calling it a pole instead of my lance?

    Some days he missed his leg more than other days—even if the memory of having it was almost lost to him now. Then he’d remember that he’d been legless for more than forty years. He thought of his leg as an echo of his youth—a misspent youth he was trying to forget—along with a vanquished life he was trying to leave behind. 

Like the fog at Barnham Down. 

    If only I’d died there instead of losing my leg. 

    He was rubbing the stump and feeling the heat of the wound in spite of the cold around him. 

    Or if I hadn’t taken to wound there, but at Camlan Fields—Arthur’s final battle it proved to be. 

    That battle had numbered more than one thousand knights. Those who died were set on by robbers come to strip them of the brooches, beads, and jewellery they wore; those not quite dead were slain. 

    It was more than just the end of Arthur.

    He looked at the clearing, kneading his stump as he thought about the stag. It brought back memories of Camelot; of jousts and tourneys; Lancelot, Gawain, and Lamorack—and he thought as he tied his wooden leg back into place how the world would never see a time like that again. He sheathed his sword, and then pushed himself up, testing his weight on the leg and picking up the wicker pannier with an effort.  

    That feels better. 

    He began picking up the branches he’d chopped down.    

                                                                                     ******

    As Grummore approached the camp, he heard voices. Bending low and cursing his wooden leg, he pulled the bow about, tossing the quiver to the side and silently notching an arrow. He took a second arrow and made his way through the underbrush. There were two men—thieves—one on foot and the other sitting on one of the two horses, picking at a stone in his shoe. 

    Ector was on his hands and knees in the snow. 

    The thief standing closest to Ector was old, thin and grizzled. His long beard appeared mossy, his face twisted, and ugly. He was eating the last of the stew as if he hadn’t eaten in days, dipping one hand into the pot while he had the reins of the second horse wrapped around his other hand. The horse stood quiet, chewing at the feedbag.

    The man on the horse looked down at Ector.

    “Are you alone?” he asked. His eyes searched the tree-line as he continued to poke at his shoe with the knife. He was young, probably no more than thirty Grummore thought, and certainly looked the more capable of the two. 

    Perhaps he finds it strange stumbling on a man sleeping in a campsite with rabbit stew cooking in a pot? 

    It was something the older man seemed to take in stride, Grummore noted.

    “I asked if you were alone?” the first thief asked again.

    “D’ya see anyone else about?” Ector answered, and Grummore smiled to himself. 

    He’s a good lad; brave, but stupid. 

    Grummore knew that if the two thieves hadn’t crept up on Ector while he was sleeping, they would’ve never gotten the better of him. The old man looked up from the stew he was eating and kicked Ector in the ribs, grinning as he licked his hand clean. He pulled on the reins, pulling the horse to follow him, kicking Ector a second time, and then a third time. He looked up at the other thief, laughing at Ector holding his side.

    “Maybe now he’ll learn talkin’ t’ ye right-wise?” the second thief said, squinting up at the other thief on the horse.

    Grummore stood, pulling the notched arrow back in one fluid motion as he limped out into the open and let the arrow fly. 

    The old thief had a look of sudden shock staring down at the fatal arrow sticking out of his chest; the horse reared up in fright, pulling the thief along like an afterthought. 

    The second thief reached for his sword. He pulled it out of the scabbard in one singing movement, but Grummore already had another arrow notched in his bow as he stepped further into the clearing.

    “I was adoubted if ye’d be daffish enough t’ ‘dress yerself against me,” Grummore laughed, pulling the bow taut. 

    The thief pulled on the reins and the horse reared up as Grummore released the arrow, burying it feather-deep into the horse’s breast. The horse screamed in pain, its eyes wide with terror as it toppled over onto its forelegs coughing and frothing a bloody foam. The thief stepped free of the dying horse and stood his ground having found solid footing.

    Grummore dropped his bow and laughed. He unlatched the belted baldric and began shrugging off his bearskin robe as he drew his sword out of the rusty scabbard. He tossed it to the side and stomped his way through the snow toward the thief, his sword held high as a scream burst from his lips. 

    And now it was the thief who laughed, watching the old man hobble to the attack. Grummore’s sword flashed in the light, his breath puffing in the cold air as he kicked snow with each limping step. 

    The thief raised his sword, charging the old man. At the last possible moment, Grummore lowered his sword and tucked his head. Rolling forward, he caught the man in the midriff with his wooden leg as he swung at him with the flat of his sword, knocking his feet out from under him and tumbling him into the snow. 

    Grummore stood above the thief with his sword pressed against the man’s chest, his footpad standing on the man’s sword.

    “Would I were assured as t’ where yer errant lusts will take ye, laddie,” Grummore said with a smile. “But all the same, t’is by yer own disadventure ye find yerself at odds with one ye might ha’ thought in ‘is dotage. An’ ‘ow now that I’ve disworshipped ye all in one fell swoop?”

     “An’ what will ye be doin’ with ‘im, Gran?” Ector asked, pushing himself up to his knees with an effort. He was a handsome youth, with misty grey eyes set deep in a soft face. He stood tall, and broad-shouldered, but was awkwardly poking his ribs. He grimaced with pain.

     “Will ye be killin’ ‘im, like t’other one? Or will ye be sendin’ ‘im on his merry way, t’ bring others?”

    “Others?” the thief asked. 

    “Aye, lad, a good thought that,” Grummore smiled. “T’is a great mal-ease I feel with ‘im.”

    “There’s no one else! I swear! No one!” the thief said, a deathly pallor coming over his face at the thought of what might follow.

    “So say ye now, ye perfidious lout,” Grummore said. He pressed his sword harder against the man’s throat.

    “I swear, there’s no one else!” the man called out to Ector.

    “I’d liefer believe ye than ‘ave t’ tear ye limb-meal—”

    “What?” the thief asked, looking from Grummore to Ector and back to Grummore again. “I don’t understand the half of what he’s saying!” he called out to Ector.

    “He said he’d rather believe ye than have to tear ye limb from limb—”

    “Believe me!” the thief cried out. “Believe me! There’s no one else!” he said again. Looking up the length of Grummore’s sword pressing against his throat, he pleaded. “There’s no one else! I swear by all that’s holy—”

    “Holy? Ye wot not from holy, lad. Ye’ve come ‘ere with pillars intent, meanin’ t’ take the very food from our bellies—”

    “And that’s all we’ve come for! Just the food! We haven’t eaten in days! We’ve been hiding.”

    “Hiding! A man bent on holy ways has nae t’ hide. Ye wot not from holy!”     

    “He’s set in his ways,” Ector said, unwinding the horse’s reins from the dead man’s hand. He tied the animal to the wagon. “It’s somethin’ to do with the way things used to be,” Ector went on, picking up the horse collar and placing it around the animal’s neck before hitching it into place.

    “How long are you going to keep that sword pressed to my neck, old man?” the thief asked Grummore.

    “Mayhaps I should slip it through, tofore?” Grummore smiled. He turned to look at Ector. “What say ye, boy? Are ye near done there?”

    “Aye,” Ector said, looking at the dead man. He bent down to search the body, taking the man’s knife and slipping it into his boot. He found three small gold pieces—each one a different shape and size. 

    “What’re these?” Ector asked, trying to bite the edge of one of the pieces.

    The thief shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

    “Ye’ve never seen gold before? Then ye won’t be mindin’ if I search yerself as well?” Ector asked, walking toward the man but not before looking at his grandfather; there was an unspoken message that passed between the two as Ector turned his attention back to the thief on the ground. “I’m gonna search yer pockets. If ye so much as twitch, Gran here’ll be more’n glad to stick ye through. Now tell me, where were the likes of ye comin’ from?”

    The thief was silent, and Ector paused in his search to look at the man; he looked up and Grummore leaned on the sword gently.

    “I asked ye a question?” he said, looking down at the thief.

    “Dragon’s Lair,” the thief replied.

    “Dragon’s Lair? An’ what’s that? Are there supposed to be dragons there?” he asked with a laugh. “As ye can plainly see, we’re Dragon Slayers. Well, that’s what Gran tells me it says. It’s Latin,” he added with a smile, dropping the found gold pieces into his pocket.

    “I know what it says.”

    “Ye can read then, can ye?”

    “Would it make a difference if I said yes?”

    Ector considered the question and then laughed as he stood up.     “Not really. Ye see Gran has a habit of defendin’ people that can’t help themselves—but attack him?” Ector went on as he began packing up the campsite. He dragged the dead man into the underbrush, leaving a bloody trail in the snow. “Well, if you attack him thinkin’ he’s an easy target—or me—well, he’s not one t’ easily forgive those who trespass against him.” 

    Ector picked up the black pot, digging his hand into the bottom of it and scraping out the last of the stew. He licked his hand clean, smearing it on his jerkin before wiping the pot out with a handful of snow and placing it in the back of the wagon. He tied the tarp closed before putting the battered shield back into place.

    “We didn’t trespass against him!” the thief declared.

    “No? And what was yer intent, then?” Ector asked softly, and Grummore prodded the man with the point of his sword. “For all I know, ye might still want t’ kill us as we sleep. Gran’s not about to let that happen, are ye, Gran?” Ector asked, and Grummore shook his head slowly. Ector leaned back against the wagon smiling, folding his arms across his chest as he looked at Grummore who smiled slowly.

    “So he means to kill me?” the thief asked, looking at the feet of his dead companion poking out of the underbrush before looking up at Grummore again.

    “I’m thinking he might just maim you,” Ector said, shrugging.

    “Maim me? Do you mean cut off an arm, or a leg? That kind of maiming?”

    “Aye,” Grummore said, pushing the point of the blade against the thief’s throat.

    “Is he serious?” the thief asked Ector.

    “Gran’s been around too long to believe you’ll actually do what you say. Fifty years ago he might’ve believed ye—”        

    “Aye, but t’was his ilk woulda been at Camlan Field,” Grummore nodded, leaning a little harder against the sword. “An’ when I bethink all those brave men left t’ rot there.”

    “Camlan Field? Where’s that?” the thief croaked.

    “Ye wot not by Camlan Field?” Grummore asked, slowly shaking his head. 

    “That’s where Arthur was felled by his bairn, Modred, in his third an’ last battle. You know those names, don’t you?” Ector said, walking back to the campfire. He looked at the dying horse laying in a frothing pool of blood. “Did you have to kill the poor beastie, Gran?” he asked Grummore.

    “T’was little t’ be done on it,” Grummore said. 

    “Is that where you lost your leg, old man?” the thief asked, looking up at Grummore. “At Camlan Field?”

    “T’was at Barnham Down I lost it,” Grummore said, his voice deep and threatening.

    “An’ where’s that?” the thief asked.

    “Ye wot not that as well!” Grummore exploded, stepping back and driving the point of his blade into the ground. He leaned on it, looking down at the ground and exhaling an anxious huff.

    “Should I know it?” the thief asked.

    Grummore considered the question, half raising his head and looking at the thief from under heavy brows before turning to his grandson, he said, “Liefer would I ha’ died at Barnham Down than see it all come down t’ this.” 

    He looked at the thief. 

    “When Arthur fell at Camlan Field, Camelot was itself defoiled; ever’thin’ that was good went with ‘im that day. Gawain had himself befallen the week tofore, sorely mischieved by a smoting blow from Lancelot as we battled at Benwick; he was taken to leech the entire week thereafter. T’was later though, at Dover, where Gawain’s brothers died, the lot of ‘em, the perfidious bastards. Only Gareth stood firm by my likin’. But Gareth was slain aggrievously by Lancelot, though ‘e bethought it was Modred who stood in his place. We wept for Gareth—all of Camelot wept for Gareth—an’ none moreso than Lancelot, but by then it was too late as Lancelot betook Guinevere to Benwick, an’ the call to arms all but to-shivered we Table knights. Those cousins an’ kinsmen who followed Lancelot grieved their lot, an’ when it was done—when Benwick’s walls were brast an’ brised—we betook ourselves back to Camelot. An’ as yet we made landfall at Dover, Modred met us with his knights. An’ even as Gawain an’ Modred stood half-kin Gawain fought the boy ‘til Modred took the higher hand and Gawain, stood by with Arthur ‘til being sorely aggrieved, died in his arms thereafter.”

    “And you were there?”

    “D’ye doubt me then!” Grummore snapped.

    “No!” the thief cried out.

    “Don’t doubt ‘im at his word,” Ector said, turning to the wagon and rummaging inside before turning his attention to the dying horse.  

     Ector pulled the knife out of his boot and sliced the horse’s throat with a practised ease. Placing a steadying hand on the animal’s throat, he felt a last, silent quiver as he held a small earthen jug to catch some of the blood for flavouring tonight’s stew. Soon, the eviscerated offal was piled to the side and Ector began separating as much of the flesh from the hide as he was able; the animal’s blood seeping into the snow and staining it with its sanguinary secret. Wrapping whatever strips of flesh he could within the folds of the horse’s own hide, Ector tied a length of leather tack around the package, hanging it inside the wagon’s tent. 

“We’ll eat like kings for a week I don’t doubt,” Ector sighed.

    “Tell me how you fought by Arthur’s side,” the thief said, at last, sickened by the gory sight of Ector’s butchery.

    Grummore stepped back again, re-planting his sword in the soft loam and looking out at the snow-covered trees. He could feel the cold in the shallow of what had once been his leg.

    “T’was brillig cold that morn as well,” Grummore said at last, “the morn I lost my leg; but all mal-ease an’ miscomfort are soon forgot when it comes t’ battle. T’was at Barnham Down where I was mischieved, aye; unhorsed in that great melee, an’ left t’ die. It fortuned me that Bedivere found me an’ took me t’ leech.”

    “But, if you were a knight at Camelot—”

    “Aye,” Grummore nodded.    “An’ what of it?”

    “Then how can you kill me? Wasn’t there some sort of code?”

    “How can I not slay ye, miscreant?” Grummore asked.

    “Wait! You say you’re Dragon Slayers?”

    “Aye,” Grummore said with a slow nod.

    “Those coins?” he said, pointing at Ector who reached a bloody finger into his jerkin pocket and fingered the coins before pulling them out to look at them.

    “What of ‘em?” Ector asked.

    “They’re the last of the dragon’s shells.”

    “Dragon shells? You mean from Dragon’s Lair?” Ector smiled.

     The man nodded. “I can get you more; all you have to do is kill the dragon.” 

    “Kill the dragon?” Ector laughed. “There are no dragons! It’s just a way for us to collect money while Gran tells his stories to the wee’uns. Besides, people don’t wanna hear about dragons, they wanna hear about Arthur, an’ Lancelot, an’ the love he had for the Queen.”

    “But there is a dragon! I’ve seen it. It’s the reason we haven’t eaten for three days. It’s been hunting us because Reynaud broke its egg. It even has a name!”

    “A name? The dragon has a name?” Ector smiled.

    “Aye,” Grummore said softly, “Meligaunt.”          

                                                                                       ******

     “Bind ‘im,” Grummore said, sheathing his sword and turning away. He picked up his bearskin robe, wrapping it around himself as he made his way to the front of the wagon and climbed up onto the seat.

    “Bind him? Have you taken to yer dotage, Old Man?” Ector asked, licking the horse’s blood from his fingers as he watched Grummore climbing up onto the wagon. 

    Grummore pulled the bearskin robe tight and leaned back against the wagon, closing his eyes. Ector shook his head, walking to the back of the wagon, muttering. He pulled the battered shield down again and untied the heavy tarp, climbing into the wagon where he searched for a length of rope.  

    “If ye ask me, I say leave we ‘im an’ be done with it,” Ector called out. “Dragons? Is that what we’re doing now? Looking for an imaginary dragon?” he asked, poking his head out of the front of the wagon. “For real?”

    “Aye,” Grummore said softly, smiling.

    “If ye try cheating us in any way; if ye try running, or think ye can kill us as we sleep,” Ector said, looking at the thief before continuing his search, “I’ll put an arrow in ye.”

    “I’m not lying,” the thief said.

    “No? I was hopin’ ye were,” Ector said, stepping down from the wagon. He was holding three different lengths of rope.

    “Gimme yer foot,” Ector said, making a loop in one end of a rope piece.

    “What for?”

    “I’m gonna hobble ye like the animal y’are,” Ector said, cinching the rope tight around the man’s ankle.

    “That’s too tight.”

    “Would ye rather I slice ye behind yer knee?” Ector asked softly. “Gran calls that the hough-bone. Step ahead,” he said, measuring the rope and pulling the man’s foot back half a step.

    “Do you expect me to walk like this?”

    Ector smiled as he shook his head. He took the second piece of rope and tied the man’s hands in front of him. He made a loop with the third length and slipped it over the thief’s neck, tying the other end to the back of the wagon. He let out ten feet of rope.

    “If ye don’t keep up, we’ll drag ye,” Ector said. 

    He climbed up onto the wagon, picking up the reins and urging the horse forward. He turned to look back at the camp, reassuring himself they were leaving nothing behind. He guided the wagon over the snow-covered trail with the thought of the thief shuffling to keep up; it brought a smile to his lips.

                                                                                       ****** 

    It was late in the afternoon before they stopped. There were heavy clouds laying across the distant horizon—dark and foreboding—as the wind came shuffling down from the North. The wide expanse of the snow-covered meadowlands had surrendered itself to a harsh, sparse scrubland, where large rocky outcrops lined the road and lush fields of endless snow gave way to hard-scrabbled acres of gravel and stone. The wind felt colder without the trees to hold it back, while the snow stood in tall drifts against the large boulders. There was little wildlife to see and a few birds.

    Grummore sat silent for most of the ride, staring off at the side of the road. Most of the trees looked stunted and twisted, some appeared charred and burned; the ground around them a wasted track. He grunted to himself as if he were answering his own questions, and Ector looked at him with a sidelong glance. 

     Ector pulled the horse off to the side of the road where a small stream broke through the rocks, spilling across crystal shards of ice that danced with brilliant colours. There was little shelter from the wind.

    “T’is a stilly land here,” Grummore said softly. “The trees all but to-shivered.”

    “No worse than any other countryside we’ve been through, Gran,” Ector said softly, climbing down from the seat and stretching his legs.

    “Nay, t’is a mischievous miscomfort that abides herein; a great mal-fortune. T’was noised about that overthwart an’ endlong of ‘ere lay a ruinous waste where even pillers an’ their pillings held no sway. An e’er a bachelor knight spurred his way through this wasteland, ye could be certain there’d be a great spurrin’ an’ a steady wallop as he hied ‘is way out.”

    “And why’s that, Gran?” Ector asked as he unhitched the horse. “The dragon?”

    “Aye. Word was that a beast held the higher hand; it hove to here about, hilled among the crags where it waited unpronounced.”

    “Am I supposed to believe that, Gran?” Ector asked.

    “I don’t know what he’s saying,” the thief said, trying to catch his breath, “but if he’s saying what I think he’s saying—then it’s true,” he said, sinking down exhausted and leaning back against the wagon’s wheel. He picked up a handful of snow, burying his face in it; steam rose off his body. 

    “An’ what do ye think he’s sayin’?” Ector asked with a sneer.

    “That we’re near Dragon’s Lair,” the thief said.

    “Dragon’s Lair? Is that what they call this place?” he asked, looking out at the desolate landscape.

    “Dragon’s Lair is over the hills and through the trees; beyond the next valley.”

    “Trees? What trees? I don’t see any trees,” Ector said with a laugh, untying the rope from the thief’s feet and using it to hobble the horse. “Trees. That’s what Gran was talking about. Are ye sayin’ there’re trees in the next valley?”

    “Like a thief doesn’t steal from his own family—”

    “But does—”

    “—a dragon doesn’t kill in its own territory.”

    “So what’s this, then?” 

    “Hunting grounds.”

    “He can’t be too happy with what he has to hunt.”

    “The villagers give her food so as not to destroy their land.”

    “Ye mean a virgin sacrifice?” Ector laughed, looking up at Grummore who was asleep on the wagon seat. His whiskered chin was lost in the warmth of the bearskin robe and the steam of his breath wreathed about his silver hair and beard. 

    “Virgin sacrifices?” the thief said, shaking his head. “They leave a cow, or a couple of goats out every other week—dragons don’t eat as much as you might think they do, although I’m pretty sure they’ve eaten a few Dragon Slayers over the years.”

    “And how do you know so much about this dragon?”

    “I told you, I’ve seen it; we watched it for a spell. Her, I should think, since there was an egg.”

    “Ye’ve seen ‘er, then? What? Flittin’ about the trees like a bat?” Ector asked. “Does she only come out at night, or something? How is it I’ve never heard tales of a dragon in these parts?” he added, untying the rope from the back of the wagon.

    “If you’ve never heard of a dragon in these parts, it’s because you’ve never been in these parts,” the thief said. “Your dear old Gran seems to know the story. Perhaps he kept you away on purpose?”

    “An’ why would ‘e do that?” Ector asked, tying the thief to the wagon wheel as if he were crucifying him.

    “I don’t know,” the thief replied. “Maybe he’s afraid?”

                                                                                                        ******

    “Was he really at Camelot?” the thief asked.

    “Aye.”

    “And a knight?”

    “Aye. That’s his shield.”

    “What’s it supposed to be?”

    “A mailed fist, an’ a flagon of ale,” Ector smiled, looking at the shield in the soft light of the fire. “It’s too faded, but when I was a wee one, it was a brilliant blue. Like his armour. He’d wear it every year to commemorate the battle of Camlan Field.”

    “Was he any good?”

    “He’s still alive, isn’t ‘e?”

    “That doesn’t mean anything. What’s his name?”

    “Sir Grummerson of Inverness Castle.”

    “Never heard of him.”

    “He’s a Scots knight. There were more than a hundred and fifty Table Knights at Camelot,” Ector said, walking to the back of the wagon and pulling out the bow and quiver.

    “A hundred and fifty? How big was this table?”

    “You have a harder time believing he was a Knight than believing in dragons; why’s that?”

    “It’s a lot easier to believe in a dragon you’ve seen, than a child’s dream of Camelot.” 

                                                                                         ******

    “Gran says I should untie you,” Ector said, although he didn’t look pleased about the idea.  

    “He does, does he? Well, bless his heart.”

    “I’ll still be tyin’ yer hands though,” Ector added, “on account of me bein’ not as trustin’. I don’t take kindly t’ thieves,” he said, untying the man’s arms long enough to tie his hands in front of him again. “You’ll be sleeping under the wagon all the same; Gran and I’ll be sleepin’ in the back, as we’re wont to do.”

    Ector led the man around the other side of the wagon where Grummore was stirring the pot hanging from its tripod and hook. Grummore looked up briefly as he added chopped carrots, turnips and potatoes to the mixture. Ector sat down beside Grummore and pulled the knife out of his boot, cutting a piece horse flesh into chunks and tossing it into what promised to be a hearty stew.

    “I don’t care too much for horse meat,” the thief said.

    “Yer not obliged t’ have any,” Ector replied. “But this mornin’, yerself an’ yer friend burst into camp, starvin’ fer food.”

    Grummore handed the man a small bag of wild berries and nuts after adding a small handful to the stew, then gave him a jug of warm ale. As the afternoon lingered, large storm clouds gathered in an ever darkening sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning flashed somewhere over the horizon, the light strangely washing the distant hills.

    “There’ll be a rainstorm by an’ by,” Grummore said without looking up. “A spate the likes o’ which was visited on Noah hisself—mayhap e’en another dustin’ o’ snow.”

    “Aye, Gran.” 

    “I ken it in m’ leg, lad. There’ll be nae fire burnin’ through the night this night.” 

    And even as he spoke, the rain sputtered in the flames.

                                                                                       *******

    The rain came down with spite; the sky was a molten grey the colour of lead. In the distance, the clouds rolled over one another, bubbling ever upwards and looking as if they could touch the very vault of Heaven. There was a rendering crash of thunder and Grummore said it sounded like the Pictish gods of yore riding across the sky at a maddened wallop. 

    He watched as the thief looked up at the darkened sky, and smiled at how the man would have crossed himself but for the ropes holding his hands. Grummore tried not to look up every time the thief looked out at the darkness above, but when he did, he was almost certain he saw a silvery figure slipping easily among the clouds. Once, he thought he saw a flash in the sky and told himself it was lightning—almost convincing himself it was true—when he saw it again. Then there was a real flash of lightning and he saw the shadow of the beast silhouetted against the clouds, its wings outstretched as it roared out its fury at the storm. 

    The wind howled on as the sky all but split apart, and Grummore could almost imagine the pounding that was the thief’s heart, sounding like the beating rush of the dragon’s wings. He watched the man bury his head in his hands. 

The dragon’s found him and he knows it. The beast has followed his scent.     

                                                                                        II

    The morning dawned red as the sun opened a huge gash in the clouds as cleanly as a knife cutting through the finest samnite. Grummore watched the thief slowly stirring awake. The single deerskin Ector had given him was white with frost, and the man crawled out from under the wagon, breaking icicles hanging from the bottom of the wagon-bed; the small water barrel had leaked, leaving a crystal sculpting of ice in its wake.  

Grummore pulled his bearskin robe tight around himself and spat into the fire. Listening to the hiss of the stew pot on its tripod, Grummore could see the man was numb with cold as he tried untying the rope from the back of the wagon. Ector was willing to let him sit near the fire but wasn’t going to let the man walk about freely as he and Grummore slept.

    The thief looked up at the sky and Grummore followed his gaze. The dragon appeared as small as a bird, and Grummore watched as it paused to hover, searching out its prey. There was a puff of flame that dimpled the morning sky and Grummore nodded to himself. 

    “Are ye foiled in yer duress?” Grummore asked softly. 

    The thief turned with a start. 

    Grummore cocked his head slowly, looking at the thief as he leaned forward and took the heavy lid off the pot, stirring it with his stick. 

    “Hey there! Gran!” the thief called out nervously, holding his hands up in a plea. 

    Grummore hobbled over to him and pulled a long knife out from behind his back, cutting the rope without saying a word.

    “Thank you,” the thief said, wrapping the deerskin around himself and stumbling off to relieve himself. When he returned, he stood in front of the fire watching the pot bubble on its tripod. He turned to look at Grummore.

    “Breakfast, I see,” he said with a nervous smile. 

    Grummore looked up at him, not saying anything. The man turned away again, shivering. 

    Probably wishes he could stand inside the fire.

    “An’ ye’re cleped?” Grummore said finally.

    “I’m sorry?” the thief asked.

    “He wants to know yer name!” Ector called out from the wagon. He stepped out into the cold, reaching for a handful of snow and rubbing it on his chest and face.

    “Oh, my name!” the thief laughed, turning to face the fire again. “I’m sorry, I’m not used to that—whatever it is he speaks,” he smiled. “Geoffrey.”

    “Geoffrey?” Ector asked.

    “Aye,” the man smiled. “Not a great name—certainly not as knightly a name as his—more the name of a common man—”

    “More cominal thief, than cominal man,” Grummore said softly.

    “Aye, you’re right to call me a thief,” Geoffrey conceded with a nod.

    They were silent for a while and Grummore watched the man looking up at the sky. The clouds were heavy but the sun was still able to break through in places. Grummore looked at the distant hills and wondered how everything looked from up there. He glanced up at the sky again, but the dragon had disappeared among the clouds. 

    “Say ye on the dragon.”

    “Ah Gran, not the dragon again,” Ector called out as he stomped off to relieve himself.

    “Aye. The dragon followin’ us,” Grummore said softly.

    The thief sat back, trying to force a smile as he looked up at the sky for a moment. Grummore was thinking the creature could swoop down and snatch Geoffrey up before he or Ector could do anything to save him—not that he would do anything—and he watched closely as Geoffrey continued searching the sky. 

    I can smell the fear on him; little wonder the dragon was able to find him.    

    “The man I was with—Reynaud—said people have been chasing the dragon for years. There was supposed to be a cave full of gold and jewels, and he said we could have it all once we found a way around the dragon. I didn’t believe him, but I went with him anyway. I mean, gold’s gold, right? We waited for one of the villagers to take us into the hills and he pointed out the cave for us. We couldn’t see it from where we were, so he took us farther along another path the villagers sometimes use. Then he ran off. He said if we made it out alive, he knew a nobleman who’d buy the gold from us.

    “It was a smoky pit, belching out a stench like I imagine the Gates of Hell would smell like; we had to cover our faces, the smell was that bad. We looked about for the beast, but we couldn’t see it anywhere. We were thinking it was still in the cave but searched the surrounding hills anyway, and that’s where we saw it perched on an outcrop of rocks. It was the biggest thing I’ve ever seen—as tall as the very trees around us. And white—right up to the length of its long neck, where it had a beard of loose skin hanging from its chin. Huge fins ran down the length of its massive back, black striped and rippling in the breeze. There was a spiky ball at the end of its tail—I guess she uses it to smash things because it looked like a few of the spikes were broken off. 

    “We watched as the villager made his way back along the trail, but the wind changed and the beast was quick to catch his scent. She opened her eyes—big, black eyes they were, too, bigger than a plate—but then, everything about the beast was big. Once she caught the man’s stink, she clambered over the rocks—just tucked her wings up behind herself and scurried over the rocks like a giant newt. Rocks fell all about as she scrambled over top of them, and just like that, the man was trapped. We could hear his screams for help. I swear, the beast looked back at where we were hiding—it was almost as if she knew what the man was screaming and even understood him. All of a sudden, she raised herself up and spread her massive wings out, flapping them about like a giant bird and letting out a blast of flame the likes of which I’ve never seen. Straight up into the sky, it went, like a pillar of fire and then she turned the flames on the man just before they died out. The beast crawled down over the rocks and came back up a moment later with half the man’s body hanging from her jaws.

    “Now tell me, why would anyone want to face something like that? Why not run away? That’s what I wanted to do. But Reynaud, he wanted the gold, and so we watched and waited until she finally left her lair. But we didn’t go in right away; not at first. We made sure to watch how long she went away every time she left—and only when we were ready did we make our move. 

    “There were all sorts of bones scattered about, most of them scorched black and bleached by the sun. It looked like plenty had died fighting. Reynaud broke the only egg she had—he purposely stepped on it. I saw him. I don’t know how long it takes for a dragon egg to hatch, but there were other pieces of shell—older ones—and each of them was lined with gold—enough to live like a right proper man.”

    “Meligaunt,” Grummore said, and Geoffrey nodded slowly. 

    “Aye, Meligaunt. That’s what the villager called her.”

    “Those were the pieces I found in your pockets? Yerself and yer friend’s,” Ector said, stepping around the wagon and tying his breeches. He pulled his jerkin on slowly, stomping through the snow toward the fire.

    Geoffrey nodded and went on.

    “Yes. When the dragon went out to feed it was usually gone for an hour, sometimes longer. That’s when we planned to sneak back into the cave. Things changed once Reynaud broke the egg, though. Still, one of us had to go in.”

    “Who?” Ector asked.

    “I offered.”

    “Why?”

    “I didn’t trust Reynaud enough to believe he’d share everything he found.”

    “An’ what did ye find?”

    “Old dragon scales, a broken talon, some teeth. There were bones, and armour from a dozen different knights, but there weren’t any golden treasures laying about.”

    “So your guide lied?”

    “Or else Reynauld did.”

    “Ye went in once afore. Ye didna see anythin’ then? An’ what of the scales? Were ye plannin’ t’ do anythin’ with ‘em?”

    “I thought I’d sell them in one of the towns nearby. I hid them until we could find someone who wanted them.”

    Ector smiled, “I’ll wager whatever t‘was ye found--dragon’s scales or an old sheet of rock—it'd be worth its weight in gold t’ some poor bastard what believes yer story as much as Gran.”

                                                                                          ******

    Grummore looked down at the village nestled in the middle of the valley beneath a light cloud of blue smoke. A small runnel of clear water spilled down the side of a rocky hill, trickling into a smaller stream that emptied into a frozen pond where children played on the ice. He could see ice-covered rocks lying along the banks of the small stream dancing in the early twilight as they made their way down the narrow track serving as a road. He watched the children for a moment, knowing they’d follow soon enough once they saw the wagon. 

    It was a small village—forty sod and turf huts close upon each other—with the same muddy, snow-covered track that might have been a lane, running through the centre. In the centre of the village stood a blacksmith’s shop, as well as a large open barn where a dozen cows absently ate the stored up hay and grain. There was a pigsty with a large sow off to the left, while goats and chickens roamed about. A large group of villagers stood in front of the smithy—while in the centre of the group stood two strange figures. 

    The man in the centre of the gathering was a good deal taller than any of the men around him. He was holding a wooden staff intricately carved and inlaid with iron, looking more like a spear than a walking stick it was topped off with a large crystal that glowed with a light of its own in the early twilight. He carried a narrow wooden box strapped to his back. As they approached, Grummore could easily make out the stranger’s long, peppery beard tied up with tiny shards of bone and hanging down below his waist. He wore a hooded mantle decorated with stars and crescents draped about his thin shoulders as if it were a cape, but there was something about the man’s hawkish face and hard eyes that seemed familiar. 

    I know this man.

    The second stranger was a young female and she stood behind the old man in silence. She was as tall as the man, except her figure was slender rather than emaciated like the old man. She wore the same dark mantle with the same designs, but it was tied with a belt around the middle and the hood was pulled up so that it cast a shadow over her features--except for a pair of extraordinary, glowing eyes that appeared to burn in the half-light.    

    “Dinna say a word,” Ector said, turning to look at Grummore. “Either of ye,” he added. “Let me be talkin’,” he cautioned them under his breath. “An’ dinna say anythin’ ‘bout dragons, or scales, or any other such nonsense,” he added. 

    He pulled the reins in gently, looking at both Geoffrey and Grummore. “Are ye listenin’ to me? The both of ye?” 

    “Who are they?” Geoffrey asked, ignoring Ector and looking at the two strangers.

    “I ken the man,” Grummore said softly, and then shook his head. “But nae the t’other.”

    “Ye ken him?” Ector said, turning to look at Grummore.

    “Aye,” the old man nodded. 

    “And? Who is he?” Geoffrey asked.

    “T’was in his youth by the Merlin arretted-”

    “What?” Geoffrey asked. “Why does he have to talk like that? I don’t understand half of what he says when he does.” 

    “He was Merlin’s man,” Ector said, watching as the crowd gathered around the wagon; he looked out toward the frozen pond. “Here come the wee ones,” he added, urging the horse ahead.

    “Aye,” was all Grummore said.

    “The Merlin’s man? You mean the Merlin?” Geoffrey said. “Arthur’s Merlin? And what does he mean by ‘his man’? He was his helper? His apprentice? Are you telling me Merlin had an apprentice?”

    “His name was nae Merlin; ’tis a Druid title,” Ector said.

    “Methought ‘e betook ‘isself to the Paynim lands overthwart Hadry’s Wall,” Grummore said softly. 

    “He means the Roman Wall, doesn’t he? Hadrian’s Wall? Is that what he means? That he thought he was on the other side of Hadrian’s Wall?” Geoffrey asked.

    “Aye,” Grummore said, nodding. He sat strangely silent as Ector pulled up on the reins.

    “What is it, Gran?”    

     Grummore shook his head. 

      No good will come of this day. 

“An orgulous rogue bent on pillin’ the Darker Arts, he was,” Grummore said, at last, heaving a large sigh. “T’was how Nimue piked ‘im away an’ over-led ‘im; how that ‘e brought the Merlin to her accountin’.” 

“Then why show up here?” Geoffrey asked, turning to Ector who was looking at him with a quizzical expression. “What? I know what a rogue is--I’ve heard that enough times in my life—and I understand what the Darker Arts are. The rest I filled in. I get the idea your Gran didn’t much care for the man, or this woman—Nimue, or whatever her name was.”

    “T’was his shenship led the Merlin to the Crystal Caves, an’ Nimue,” Grummore said.

    “Shenship?”

    “Disgrace,” Ector said, urging the horse forward again.

    “Aye,” Grummore said, watching the children. 

    The children—at least a dozen of them that Grummore could see—were silent as they approached, high-stepping their way through the frozen snow and surrounding the wagon. 

    They’re not like other children. It’s the dragon; these people live in fear of it.

    The village Headman stepped away from the crowd, reaching for the horse’s collar as the rest of the crowd eyed the wagon with suspicion. Ector nodded, smiling at the man as he looked out over the crowd, scanning the hard faces of the men and women.

    Geoffrey peeked through the tarp as the Headman slowly walked around the wagon. As he neared the side of the wagon the man paused, trying to read the faded words painted on the wagon’s flank. Moving to the back, he reached out a hand and touched the battered shield hanging off the tailgate. Geoffrey watched him walk around the other side of the wagon, looking up at the limp flag hanging from the pole and scratching his whiskered chin. Geoffrey made his way to the front of the wagon, poking his head out of the tarp again. 

     There was a moment of silence before the man spoke.

    “We don’t take too kindly to strangers in these parts—and certainly not your kind.” 

    “If ye’d extend yer hand t’ me, we’d not be strangers then, would we?” Ector offered.

    “Certes, I trust ye nae be-thinkin’ us as bawdy, or boistous errants?” Grummore asked. “Everych of ye would fain abide—”

    “What do you want?” the man asked of a sudden, ignoring the proffered hand Ector held out, staring up at Grummore instead.

    “We’re travelling men—my Gran and I,” Ector explained, sitting up straighter as he looked out over the crowd. 

    The Headman laughed. “I’ve had some book learnin’ in my youth. I might not speak the Popish tongue, but I’ve had enough of it to know what it says on the side of your wagon,” he added, pointing at the faded letters. 

    “T’is Gran’s. He’s done things.” 

    “What things?”

    “A man has to make a living.”

    “And the other man?” the Headman asked, nodding at Geoffrey.

    “A trav’ler beset on by wayfarers,” Ector smiled. “We’ve nae money t’ offer ye, but we’re willin’ t’ trade ye a lifetime of m’ Gran’s stories for victuals, or p’rhaps a tankard of ale?” he added with another smile.

    “Trade stories for ale?” the man laughed.

    “Aye, t’is what we do.”

    “Is it now?” he laughed again. “Are you minstrels then? We don’t take too kindly to minstrels in these parts; nor do we take too kindly to storytellers. In fact, it might be better if you moved on to the next village. They might be more inclined to paying you with food--more so than we are; you can take these two with you. But you won’t want to be travelling through these parts without first paying the tax,” the man added.

    “Tax? I just said we’ve nae money t’ offer ye, an’ now ye be tellin’ me ye’ll be chargin’ us a tax,” Ector said, unconsciously touching the three shell fragments in the pocket of his jerkin. “How much is this tax?”

    “It’s outrageous! Don’t pay it,” the stranger cried out, forcing his way through the villagers.

    “And who be this then?” Ector asked the Headman. 

    The Headman shook his head and shrugged.

    “Sir Grummore,” the stranger said with an elaborate bow.

    “Bayard,” Grummore said under his breath—as though the man’s name were poison and saying it was a curse.

    “You two old codgers know one another?” the Headman asked.

    “This is Sir Grummore Grummerson,” Bayard said before Grummore could speak. “He’s the last surviving knight of Arthur’s Table. Sir Grummore Grummerson of Inverness Castle; the only Scots knight to sit at Arthur’s hand.”

    “A knight?” the Headman said with a trace of doubt. 

    There was laughter in his voice as he turned to the other villagers behind him who laughed uneasily; the children stood transfixed at the sight of a knight of the Round Table. 

    “Am I to take it these men are your squires then?” the Headman asked.

    “‘E’s my granda,” Ector said, “an’ ye’d do well nae t’ mock ‘im.”

    “My forgiveness,” the man said, bowing deeply and sweeping his arm out with the same grand gesture Bayard had used. Grummore could sense the rising anger in Ector, and put a hand on the young man’s knee. 

    The Headman turned to Bayard.

    “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

    “Bayard,” the man said.

    “And were you a knight in Arthur’s court as well?”

    Bayard shook his head.

    Ector called out. “What’s this tax yer callin’ down on us? Are the times that lax ye can only post a profit by chargin’ ever’ man what travels on the road with a Head Tax?”

    “It’s a Dragon Tax,” Bayard called out.

    “A what?”

    “For two pennies, they’ll take you through a hidden trail where you won’t get eaten by the dragon. If you don’t pay the tax and take the road, they can’t guarantee your safety.”

    “A dragon!” Ector laughed. “An’ were ye ‘bout t’ pay the tax, then?”

    “On the contrary. I’ve offered to snare the dragon!” Bayard said.

    “T’is come to slay the dragon we are,” Grummore said to the crowd.

                                                                                                 III

    Grummore woke up with the dawn, his breath steaming in front of him as the snow crunched under his feet. He climbed the hill overlooking the village, his breath coming hard with the effort—his wooden leg sinking deep into the snow—but he found a single-minded determination he hadn’t felt since youth. He soon worked up a sweat and reaching the top of the hill turned to look out over the valley as it spread out below him. 

    A blanket of fresh snow covered the fields, the rising sun reflecting off the length of the watercourse. The distant mountains rose up in long, gentle slopes, painted with a rose-flushed hue as the sun crested the horizon. He could see the villagers gathering near the smithy, the Headman leading a cow out of the barn. 

Low over the horizon, a half-slipped moon stood in a cloudless sky. He saw a flash of light to the left, and whereas before he might’ve mistaken it for a bird, now he felt certain it was the dragon. He looked down at the camp where he saw Geoffrey crawling out from under the wagon, quickly searching the sky. There’s no doubt the dragon’s stalking the man, but there’s more to it than that, Grummore thought. The beast could have swept down and snatched Geoffrey up at any time, and yet it waited, watching. 

    The beast’s taunting him; letting itself be seen like an enemy laying siege to a castle.     

    Grummore turned and looked out over the valley again. He felt no fear in seeing the beast—no fear at the prospect of facing it in battle—and he wondered why. 

    Is it because I’m at peace with myself and the world around me?      

Not since having battled Lancelot in Benwick, had Grummore felt this way. After that, it was the heart-pounding madness of Barnham Down that didn’t end until the leeches cut his leg off. He heaved a heavy sigh and began making his way back downhill. 

The problem is I never expected to live this long. 

    As Grummore approached the campsite he could hear the sound of a single drum as well as voices raised in song. He looked toward the lane where he saw the villagers approaching a fenced enclosure, leading a cow. They were singing prayers, and Hosannas, and he supposed they’d seen the dragon flitting about, just as he had. Rather than waiting for the dragon to attack, they were ready to make it an offering.  

And why am I not surprised to see Bayard among them? 

Grummore turned to ask Ector what he thought about the whole thing, but Ector was fast approaching Bayard’s apprentice who was standing off to the side. 

    Grummore watched the Headman step forward with a leather pouch. He dipped a bulrush inside and painted the animal’s forehead with blood. Grummore listened to the creature lowing piteously while two of the villagers led it into the enclosure, tying it to a pillar in the middle of the pasture. 

    “I see the villagers have brought out their sacrifice,” Bayard said, holding his staff with an effort.    “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bayard said in apology.

    Grummore shook his head. 

    “Ye’ve seen this tofore?” he asked after a moment. 

    “If you mean, have I seen folks trying to appease the beasts that haunt them with gifts of sinful husbandry? Then yes,” Bayard smiled. “It always starts this way though, with cows, or goats—the old, the lame, the sick—but they don’t have that many cows here, do they? Are you going to stay and wait for the dragon then?” he asked after a moment.

    “Aye. An’ yerself?”

    “I have magic in mind. But for that, I need the beast’s lair.”

    “Ye’ll be wanting Geoffrey, then; he may ‘ave it in mind t’ go overthwart an’ endlong t’ the beast’s lair.”

    “He knows where it is?” Bayard asked, and looked at Ector talking to his apprentice.

    “‘E’s been in it,” Grummore said.

    “He’s a brave man,” Bayard said with a slow shake of his head.

    “Why’s that?” Geoffrey asked, coming around the wagon, “the beast was nowhere to be found.” 

    “You left your scent behind all the same,” Bayard pointed out.

    Geoffrey laughed. “I’m not the one that stepped on her egg. It’s not me she’s after, but Reynaud and the old man killed him the day we met. I did no more than piss in her lair.”

    “You did what?”

    “A man’s gotta piss, he’s not going to wait,” Geoffrey said, poking at the fire with the toe of his boot.

    “I’ve known dragons to fly hundreds of miles searching out the scent of a single man.”

    “Have you now?” Geoffrey asked.

    Bayard nodded.

    “And if the man it seeks is already dead? What then?” 

    “She means to kill you all the same.”

    “For going into her lair?”

    He nodded again.

    Geoffrey laughed, smiling. “Well, then it’s a good thing you’re here, isn’t it?”

    “As long as she comes here instead of searching you out—I mean, once she realizes you’re here.”

    “Oh, she knows he’s here,” Grummore laughed.

    “Then it depends on whether or not you took anything.”

    Geoffrey was silent for a moment.

    Grummore laughed again. “The man’s a cominal rogue! Pilling’s all that he knows!”

    “Well, I guess that depends on what you mean by taking anything,” Geoffrey said, looking at Grummore. “If by taking anything you mean the old bones and armour laying about, then no, I didn’t. But if you mean anything else—like say, a tooth or a claw—or maybe if she was moulting and lost a scale or two and I chanced to pick one up? Would that be worth chasing me down?”

    “Maybe not,” Bayard said, laughing quickly, ignoring Grummore staring up at him in disbelief. “What did you take?” Bayard asked.

    “A few pieces of shell—but Ector took them from me,” he was quick to add.

    “Draconis putaminis?” 

    “And what’s that mean?” 

    “What if I told you those little pieces of the egg may help us slay the dragon? Would you go back and get one for me?”

                                                                                               ******

    Grummore paused for a moment, looking up at the rise and watching in silence as Geoffrey, Ector, and Bayard’s apprentice set off for the dragon’s lair. He turned to look at Bayard beside him, watching the strange trio. 

    “T’is a fool’s errand ye’ve set them to,” Grummore said.

    “Young men think old men are fools, while old men know young men are,” Bayard smiled. “I wouldn’t say it’s a fool’s errand, but without something of the dragon’s to hold, there’s little magic that can be done.”

    “An’ what sort o’ magic d’ ye ‘spect from ‘er?”

    “I’ve seen men lull beasts to sleep with potions and incantations; it makes it easier to slay them when they can’t resist you,” he added with a grin. “The girl hasn’t quite mastered it yet, but the question here is, what are you planning to do?” he asked casually, sitting on a small stump near the fire and poking at the embers with a stick. He tossed another piece of wood on the fire, looking at Grummore sideways.

    “Aye,” Grummore said. 

    I’ll probably die here today. 

    Grummore stood up and looked at the sky, a brilliant blue with a half-slip of the moon high up in the eastern sky, and then looked at the whiteness of the hills around him. He stomped off toward the wagon, kicking at the snow and leaving his strange wake behind him and picked up his shield, silently hanging it from a nearby tree.

    “That’s your answer? A challenge?”  

     “Aye,” he said, stepping back to look at it. A small smile touching his lips. He remembered himself as a young knight hanging his shield in the branches of a large oak tree as a challenge to any bachelor knight who happened to chance by. 

    That’s how I met Bedivere. The first of Arthur’s knights and the last to die—except for me. 

    “And what will the dragon do when it sees the shield?” Bayard asked. 

    “Come to disadventure, mayhap? Mischieved through mal-fortune in this wildsome land?”

    Grummore climbed into the back of the wagon and began sorting through an accumulation of thirty years worth of travel. He tossed hunting equipment and furs to the side, finally opening the huge trunk that lay on the bottom of the wagon. He hadn’t opened it in years. He told himself he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the nostalgic musings of youth.

     I need to make an impression—not only on the dragon—but the people in the village.     

     He tossed his saddle out of the wagon, along with the rest of his armour. It was tarnished and spotted with rust. He climbed out of the wagon, laying the armour out on the snow carefully. The once brilliant red cape was threadbare and faded; the gold piping as white as the snow. The heavy iron cuirass—the thorax—was ancient judging by what they wore these days, he knew, but it was already old and outdated when he considered what Modred’s army was wearing at Barnham Down. 

    I look more like a Roman soldier than a knight.  

    He looked up at the limp dragon flag, and pulled the pole out of the hole, thinking it was a sad way for a man to treat his lance. 

    “T’day’s as good a day t’ die as tomorn,” Grummore said softly.

    “I’m certain it is,” Bayard agreed, watching the old man make his preparations. “And what if the dragon only maims you?”

    Grummore laughed, pulling on the saddle and sitting on it. He picked up the cuirass and began rubbing at the rust spots with a rag, looking at Bayard as he toiled. He spat on the leather underside, working it in. At last, heaving a sigh he put the armour down and looked at Bayard before speaking.

     “I’ve been brast an’ broached, mischieved an’ mis-sayed—all but to-shivered an’ left fer dead—an as much as I’ve been abashed an’ assotted at the hands of love, I’ve sided m’self ‘mongst the truliest flowerhood of Arthur’s best knights. I’ve cast bread with Gawain an’ his felonous Orkney knights on the one eve—only t’ be laid out through the lusts o’ that miscreant, Gaheris overmorn. I’ve stood apparelled in festive garb with Bedivere an’ Percival; amounted an’ rode endlong an’ overlong with Galahad an’ th’ other Grail knights. It once fortuned me t’ see Tristan win the tourney-day at Camelot an’ win the queen’s coronal—then hie off with Launcelot’s kinsman, Lamorack de Gales only t’ be aslayed grievously at the behest of Mark ‘cause ‘e dared love the queen Isolde. I’ve chased overthwart an’ endlong searchin’ for the Questin’ Beast with Pellinore. 

    “I’ve nae been adoubted I’d die an early life—an’ rode out with a mad pricking t’ sit atop the higher hills the day I saw Camelot fall. I’d liefer have died at Barnham Down than see that great house all aflamed. T’was all forecast by the Merlin afore then—even with Launcelot’s rashin’ to the Queen an’ savin’ ‘er from the pyre—an’ wot ye well how I saw Arthur’s relief as that great flower of Christendom did so—for after that day, we fought the war we none could avoid with Modred forcing the King’s hand t’ yield. T’was Bedivere told me how Arthur smote his evil-born son a-pating the likes of which nae man could survive. Think ye then I’ve nae died within-forth each day that passes me by, knowin’ all I’ve loved an’ lost ‘as been laid to waste?” 

    Grummore smiled. “Be ensured Bayard, I’ll ride out with a mad pricking, all foining an’ dashin’ about ‘til I’m forfoughten an’ forwounded, but I’ll nae avoid the mal-fortune what follows; I’ll nae have it leched about I did’na do my duty as a knight of the Table Round!”

    “God save you from the fool you are, Sir Grummore. There's no need to die when there’s magic about,” Bayard said as he left.

                                                                                              ******

    Grummore found himself asleep and when he woke up, looked down to see his wooden footpad smoking in front of the fire.

    I haven’t let that happened in years.

    He stumbled to the snow bank, hearing the wood hiss and watching it steam—smelling the burnt wood—and wondered if he’d have to ask Ector to make another foot pad. He laughed at himself as he looked down at the wooden pad, pulling it out of the snow to assess how much damage there was.

    Imagine the day’s slaying called off because I’ve burned my footpad.

    He turned, sensing he wasn’t alone and saw Ector, Geoffrey, and the girl. There was a bag between them with a few of the dragon’s large scales poking out. Geoffrey was grinning, and the girl was trying not to laugh. Ector walked toward Grummore, pushing the old man into the snowbank so that he could look at the bottom of the charred pad.

    “T’is nae starked ruinous?” Grummore asked.

    “Not as bad as ye’ve done before,” Ector said. “E’d done it one time where the whole leg was aflame—with ‘im laying on the ground waving it about like a stick ‘e was trying to shake out. I think ‘e was truly thinking ‘e could shake it out. I had to make ‘im a new leg that time,” Ector added as he sat down, watching the old man. “I’ve had to make ‘im three new legs over the years.”

    Grummore was shaking his head as he struggled to stand up and stomp back toward the fire. He picked up his long stick and began poking at the embers as he looked into the flames, lost in thought.

    “I’ve dreamt me a dreamin’,” Grummore said. “I wist well it was; I’ve devised an’ delibered--”

    “What’s he talking about?” Geoffrey asked.

    “Quiet,” Ector said. 

    “Meligaunt,” Grummore replied and looked at the girl. 

    “T’was the Merlin what did me t’ dreamin’ it—certes well I wist his hand in this—fettered it in m’ brain pate,” he added, tapping his head slowly.

    “What’s he going on about?” Geoffrey insisted, but Ector waved him off.

    “He says that he dreamed about the dragon,” the girl said slowly.         “And why would you do that?” Ector asked.

    “He’s going to kill it—or try to,” Geoffrey said. “Tell me I’m wrong, Old Man. If I’m not, I don’t think you’ll be needing me. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll collect my gold for the stuff Bayard wants, and move on.”

    “But we need you,” the girl said. 

    “You need me? Why?”

    “She has your scent,” Ector said, looking at his grandfather. “She’s more likely to come after you—”

    “Not something I want to wait for if you don’t mind.”

    “Illuc immorsus immotus!” the girl cried suddenly, and Geoffrey pitched to the ground.

                                                                                         ******

    Geoffrey woke up chained to the post in the middle of the field. He looked around, trying to get his bearings but the sun reflecting off the snow hurt his head with every attempt he made at trying to open his eyes. His head felt as if it were the size of a melon. He was finally able to focus and see Grummore’s wagon across the field, just as it was earlier. The cold wind was ripping at his flesh, and he realized he was shirtless. Still, there was a searing pain holding him on the edge of a scream somewhere in the corner of his mind; he opened his eyes slowly. There were cuts on his chest, and even though the blood had stopped flowing long ago, he didn’t know if it was because he’d run out of blood, or if it was simply frozen to him. 

    He moaned with the effort it took to move his head, and watched Ector trying to help Grummore dress for battle. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he knew Ector was arguing with the old man. Bayard sat crouched nearby, busy with his own preparations, while the girl was kneeling in front of the fire grinding up dragon shells and mumbling soft prayers over them. She had the cowl of her hood drawn up over her head casting her face deep into the shadows and the rest of her mantle drawn around the small, powdery pile in front of her.

    “Oh, so you’re awake?” Bayard said, grasping his walking stick where he had it sticking up out of the snow. He closed the small wooden box and pushed it out of his way. The walking stick looked like a long, four-sided lance, towering over him. He wondered how Bayard expected to use such a clumsy weapon.

    “What are you doing?” Geoffrey asked.

    “Waiting for the dragon,” Bayard said softly. “It shouldn’t be long now,” he added, placing a small wooden pivot on the end of the lance. He tested the weapon by sticking the butt end of the lance into the snow; leaning into it and bracing himself, he held two small handles, spinning and turning the weapon easily. He kicked at the snow and made two footholds for himself.

    “The dragon?”

    “Yes,” Bayard said.

    “But why am I here?”

    “You’re the bait.”

    “Bait? I’m the bait?”

    “I told you, the Dragon knows your scent. You pissed in his lair-”

    “Hers! I told you he’s a she. You might as well know that much about her before you die.”

    “Die? Once she smells your blood in the air, she’ll come out looking for you. A dragon never forgets, but more importantly, they never forgive.”

    “What’s the old man doing? Where’s Ector? I can’t believe they’re letting you do this to me.”

    “Why wouldn’t they? Everyone’s motivated by their own reasons. The girl’s is revenge; she came to me seeking to avenge her father. Mine, well, mine’s a little more complicated. I used to hunger for adventure when I was younger. I had a thirst for knowledge, and power, but then I lost the only person that mattered to me—the only person I could share it with and still be equals—”

    “The sorceress?”

    “No, but a good guess. I once loved a queen—Vivian promised that she’d help me win her if I helped destroy my master. Ah, she was a fair and noble dame if ever there was one. But she was another man’s wife, and her sons were knights at Arthur’s Table. When Arthur died, she was one of the four queens that took him to Avalon. I never saw her again.”

    “What was her name, this queen of yours?”

    “Margause. She was the half-sister of Arthur and the mother of Modred.”

    “And you loved her? Enough to destroy everything? I’d like to say I sympathize with you, but that would be a lie.”        

                                                                                       ******

    Ector, acting as Grummore’s squire, helped his grandfather with his armour—just as he had for as long as he could remember—and when he finally clasped the worn red cape to Grummore’s shoulders, he stepped back looking at the old man with a critical eye. 

    “You look more like a Carolingian Knight—”

    “An’ well ye wist a knight of Charlemagne’s,” Grummore laughed as he climbed up the front of the wagon and waited for Ector to bring the horse about.

    “Aye Gran, ye’re not lookin’ nothin’ but yer age today,” Ector said simply.

    “An’ well I should, lad. T’is by ‘is wits a man lives ‘is life, an’ I’ve lived mine fully.”

    “Ye’ve lived yer life by a code no others have, Gran, an’ yet, today, ye’ve let that code falter,” Ector said as he stood holding the horse.     

    Grummore pulled the lance out of the snow bank beside the wagon, making a last adjustment to the Dragon Pennant, finally holding his hand out for the shield.

    “Ye can’t be thinkin’ this is right, Gran,” Ector said, looking at Geoffrey as he passed up the shield.

    “What’s that, lad?” Grummore asked slowly.

    “What’s that? Geoffrey! Ye can’t be thinkin’ it’s right to use ‘im as bait for the dragon?”

    “Ye dinna need worry yerself on ‘im, lad. Ye wot not as far as ‘e goes,” Grummore added with a smile.

    “And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

    “Geoffrey’ll be fine,” Grummore said, trying to sit up straight and looking up at the clear sky.

    “Fine? He’ll be fine? He’s dragon bait, Gran! Fodder for slaughter! A worm on a hook. He’s chained to a post in the middle of an open field! How can ye think he’ll be fine? Have ye ever seen a worm not get eaten by the fish it was hunting?”

    “Dinna fret yersel’ o’er what is, an’ what shou’ be. T’is all been worked out toforehand,” Grummore said, spurring the old warhorse and riding out to the field.

    Ector followed him out of the small camp, running and stumbling in the snow.

    “Worked out? What does that mean? How has it been worked out?”

                                                                                                 #

    Grummore thought if Meligaunt was anything, she was predictable. He watched the dragon wheeling herself up higher into the afternoon sky for the third time—she’s gathering the warmth of the sun—and he stood waiting for the moment the dragon would dive down. He was expecting Meligaunt to drop her talons at the same instant she opened her wings, making it easier to snatch and kill Geoffrey in one simple motion.  

She didn’t expect to be attacked.

    At the moment she swooped in for her first attack, Grummore rode across the field with his lance down and his shield high. Bayard and the girl ran out with their Dragon Dust, throwing it up at the beast as Meligaunt spewed out her flame. There was a bright blue cocoon that formed around the group, and Grummore’s horse reared up at the suddenness of it just as Meligaunt winged herself back and away, spewing her flame out in anger and frustration. 

    Dragon Dust! And just where did he come up with that name? Grummore wondered.

    The dust worked as an impenetrable shield against the dragon’s flame—the incantations had worked for hundreds of years, Bayard said, and there was no reason to believe they wouldn’t work now—because once the beast expelled her fire, she’d be vulnerable. Before she could gather up wind for another attempt Bayard said, that was the only chance they’d have to step in and slay her. He’d pierce her heart with one blow, telling Grummore to lop off her head in one motion.

    That’s how it’s done, Bayard told Grummore. That was how he and the girl’s Gran killed seven monsters.

    We’ll see if he’s right. 

    Grummore suddenly spurred his horse again, riding out to the field even as he was telling himself that Dragon Dust and magic spells were no match for a beast the likes of Meligaunt. He thought the dragon wouldn’t kill Geoffrey yet; she wanted him alive, and that was where the three of them concentrated their assault.

    After the second attack, Meligaunt set fire to Grummore’s wagon. After the third attack, the village.

    Grummore turned when he saw Ector running across the field.

    “Are ye trying t’ get yerself killed, runnin’ out like that!” Grummore yelled.

    “Better I die out here than be burned back there!”

    “Which one of them has the death wish?” the girl asked Bayard, watching Meligaunt out of the corner of her eye.

    “How many men live to be his age?” Bayard asked.

    Grummore rode directly at Geoffrey and with one slice of his great broadsword broke the chains holding the man up. Geoffrey fell to his hands and knees, the manacled chains singing out a melody. He looked up at Grummore in confusion.

    “Awayward an’ anon!” the old knight cried out, looking up at the dragon. “Yer time fer baitin’ the beastie’s benome! Ector! See to ‘im!”

    “You fool!” Bayard screamed out, running at Geoffrey with his dragon lance in front of him.  

    Grummore looked at Bayard as Meligaunt swooped down. Reining his horse about, he lowered his lance purposely. He spurred the horse forward—kicking at the animal’s flanks with one heel and striking with the shaft of the lance against the other flank. Meligaunt swooped in with a great roar and rush of wind at the same moment.

    “The dragon!” the girl shouted, and throwing her Dust up she chanted her strange words, waiting for the dragon to burst forth with its flame. 

    Meligaunt wavered.

    “Not yet, you fool! You’re too soon! You’re too soon!” Bayard bawled out, and turning to look up, realized Meligaunt had faltered on purpose. He tried to spin the Dragon Slayer around, but slipped in the snow, falling to the muddy ground. 

    Meligaunt’s hesitation as the girl threw the Dust ended with a great flapping of wings that spread the Dust so that it covered Geoffrey, Ector and the girl. At the same moment, she let out a blast of fire that caught Bayard unprotected just as Grummore drove his lance into the dragon’s side. Meligaunt let out a roar that echoed through the hills, and turning, snapped the lance with her great taloned claw as she stumbled back, mortally wounded. Grummore drew his sword out of his scabbard as Meligaunt spun, bringing her tail about and catching Grummore with the full force of her spiked weapon. Grummore’s sword flew through the air as the old man tottered from his horse and fell in a heap before the dragon—his leg trapped beneath the weight of the now dead horse. 

    Ector screamed.

    “Ye’ve all but slain me, Beastie. Now finish me afore the boy comes!” Grummore said between breaths, and Meligaunt hesitated. She bent her head down to look at Grummore, and he found himself staring into the dark eye of the beast. 

    Ector rushed through the snow with a reckoning, swooping down to pick up Grummore’s sword where it lay flashing in the field. Grummore watched, imagining that was how Arthur must have looked when he came upon the sword in the stone all those years ago—or was that Excalibur, held by the Lady of the Lake? Ector snatched the sword on the run as Meligaunt let out a last blast of breath and brought the full force of her flame’s fury to bear.

    “We have to help him!” the girl cried out to Geoffrey, trying to pull him to his feet. “The Dust won’t last much longer!”

    “Me? Weren’t you using me as bait a moment ago?” he said. “I should let her kill you like she killed Bayard.”

    “If she kills me, then you’ll die too. Now get up, before she attacks again!”

    The girl ran toward Ector with another handful of Dust, scattering it into the wind as she stood over Bayard’s smouldering body. Meligaunt let out another flame—a smaller one—catching the Dust where it floated in front of her with a great blue umbrella that seemed to melt around the girl and Geoffrey as Geoffrey picked up the Dragon Slayer and pierced the beast’s burning heart. He pushed as hard as he could, twisting the great weapon to the side. Meligaunt screamed once more as Ector drove Grummore’s sword through the beast’s black eye. Then with a mighty effort, Ector drew the blade out of the monster’s eye and sliced the dragon’s head off.  

                                                                                           ******

       The small wagon made its way through open fields and lush meadows, passing over verdant hills and narrow forest tracks rocking from side to side as it travelled from one village to another. The three travellers always told the same tale of the Dragon and the Knight—asking for no more than a plate of food and a tankard of ale. 

    Geoffrey, old, bent, and white-haired, amazed townspeople with the sight of the dragon’s scales and teeth. The Old Crone bedazzled the children with spectacles of magic. The Old Knight told a tale of disbelief that astonished crowds; a tale of wonder that had everyone calling them swindlers, pretenders, and phonies, until the moment came when Ector untied the hide covering the wagon and the people fell back in terror at the sight of the white dragon’s head staring out at them. 

    Ector always did know how to work a crowd.