Far and wide went the call, and many famed adventuring bands, from the Company of the Dancing Scimitar to ThreeD (the Death-Dealing Dwarves) to the Barbarian Horde of North Babador, heard the summons and considered whether they could help the good people of Skendrick in their hour of need.
But, while the task was worthy of the most renowned adventurers, many of those noble bands of heroes were already engaged in epic quests of their own, and so it was that a lesser-known band of hearty warriors would ultimately come to answer the call, their desire to build a name for themselves as a distinguished adventuring company surpassed only by their desire to ensure the safety of the people of Skendrick.
It would, however, take the heroic efforts of one of Erithea’s most celebrated bards to bring the adventurers to the good people who so desperately needed their assistance.
Chapter 8
A CLARION CALL IS MET WITH INDIFFERENCE, BUT FINALLY ANSWERED IN AN UNEXPECTED WAY
It’s true that a who’s-who of adventuring companies heard about Skendrick’s call for help, albeit weeks later and after the dragon had ravaged the surrounding countryside a few more times. But reactions to the desperate plea were indifferent at best. The Company of the Dancing Scimitar, for example, snorted at the lack of reward and then went back to snorting various narcotic powders. The Death-Dealing Dwarves were too drunk to do anything more than giggle over the word “Skendrick,” which, in the dialect of the dwarven stronghold from which they hailed, referred to the very special (and odiferous) type of sweat that builds up beneath a dwarf’s nethers after a hard day at the forge, as in, “Ach! It’s been a long day workin’ the bellows, and me giggleberries be covered in skendrick; might be that it’s time for a washin’ before the alehouse.” And, while the Barbarian Horde of North Babador discussed the matter seriously, they concluded by raising a toast to the dragon in recognition of its might and contemplating the prospect of looting the corpses of the villagers if the dragon made a particularly deadly assault.
In short, powerful adventurers weren’t exactly stepping on each other’s mother’s throats for the chance to help the good people of Skendrick. So, the Skendrickians waited, and it was in their hour of greatest need that they showed their true spirit. Alderman Wooddunny called a townage hall meeting to address everyone’s concerns.
“Gi’ th’ blurnin’ widdah the wee burn a’ th’ stake afore th’ beast strikes agin! It’s all hur doin’, what wi’ sayin’ nay t’ doin’ a wee bit o’ th’ double-backed beast wi’ a man’s as honest as a day’s long, and him bein’ twice as much so!” exclaimed Farmer Benton heatedly to start the proceedings.
“While we appreciate your opinion, as always, Farmer Benton,” replied the Alderman smoothly, “I’m quite sure that it’s not the Widow Gershon’s unwillingness to, ah, lie with you that’s causing the dragon to attack. As such, burning her at the stake is unlikely to resolve our situation.”
“Ach! How do ye ken fer suren? Might culd be her munthly bleed!”
“I haven’t had a monthly bleed in fifteen years, you tiny-todgered pig lover!”
“Thank you, Widow Gershon.” Alderman Wooddunny massaged his temples. “Now then, does anyone have any, ah, more constructive suggestions as to how we might find some capable, or at least willing, adventurers to come to our assistance?”
The citizens of Skendrick looked at each other blankly. Finally, after several moments of awkward silence in which the snuffling and snorting of a piglet in Farmer Benton’s lap lent credence to the Widow Gershon’s accusation of porcine affection and prompted a “Likes ‘em young, you see?” comment from the Widow, a young man stood, cleared his throat nervously, and said, quietly, “Maybe we could…I dunno…offer a bit more of a reward?”
“Now, that’s not an unreasonable solution to propose, Goodman Youngman,” replied the Alderman, “but, I’m afraid our coffers are, ah, rather less well apportioned than would be ideal—due in large part to the lost sales of the crops the dragon has destroyed.”
“Th’ harrible crecher took a shine ta th’ Brussels in me field, it did! Wiped ‘em but clean,” said a bewildered Farmer Benton, apparently, and perhaps justifiably, mystified by the dragon’s particular focus on his fields of Brussels sprouts.
“Yes, well, be that as it may,” replied the Alderman, “I fear that offering more money is, ah, not an option we can pursue.” He paused and looked slowly around the room. “Does anyone else have an idea? Anyone?”
More awkward silence followed, broken only by a pig’s squeal, an urgent shushing sound, and a low rumbling from the seat of Goodman Breakwind.
Alderman Wooddunny sighed. “Very well, then. I suppose we shall, ah, just continue to wait and hope that the missives we sent out will—”
The Alderman was interrupted when a young girl stood up and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Alderman, sir?”
The Alderman raised an eyebrow in surprise. “The floor recognizes Betty Sue Etterkin. You may address the floor, Miss Etterkin.”
Seven-year-old Betty Sue Etterkin looked around with unsettling poise and more maturity than most in the room could have mustered. “Well, Mr. Alderman, sir…maybe we need a little marketing help.”
“Marketing?” replied Alderman Wooddunny, confused.
“Yes, marketing.”
“What do you mean ‘marketing’?”
“Something hip. Something catchy. Something sexy. We live in a boring village that—”
“Town! We live in a boring town!” someone shouted, which resulted in five minutes of yelling and grumbling before order was restored.
“Please continue, Miss Etterkin.”
“Thank you, Alderman. It’s just, who would want to come rescue a boring village that’s losing a bunch of boring vegetables, especially when the call for help we sent out is so dull?”
The Alderman, who had authored the call for help, frowned. “And just what would you propose?”
Betty Sue shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m seven years old, remember? Shouldn’t you all be coming up with ideas?” Everyone in the room looked at each other sheepishly, but no one said anything. “I’m just saying that we could probably sex things up a little.”
“Harlot!” shouted the Widow Gershon.
“Thank you, Widow,” said the Alderman.
“What if we, I don’t know, hired a bard to spread the word?” said Betty Sue.
“A bard?” said Goodman Youngman. “Won’t that cost money?”
Betty Sue shrugged again. “Like I said, I’m seven. Figure it out, grown-ups.”
Alderman Wooddunny rubbed his chin. “It’s not a bad idea. And if the bard is good enough…” His voice trailed off as he considered the girl’s suggestion.
When he still hadn’t spoken a moment later, the Widow Gershon kindly reminded him that they were still waiting by shouting, “Finish your thought, virgin!”
“I was just thinking,” replied the Alderman, refusing to rise to the Widow’s bait, “that if the bard is, ah, persuasive enough, perhaps he, or she, can emphasize the dragon’s considerable hoard of treasure, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to suggest that our messenger lie, per se, a judicious embellishment of the truth might suggest that the dragon’s gold and jewels might be sufficient enough reward.”