“I’m going to go ahead and connect the dots for you, especially that guy over there, who looks like he might struggle to count to twenty-one even when he’s naked.” I pointed to a gentleman in the corner whose default facial expression was perplexed befuddlement. “We came here without treasure. We went out to slay a dragon. The dragon had a lot of treasure. We now have a lot of treasure. Oodles. What do you think that means?”
“Well,” said the Alderman, “it appears that you may have, ah—”
“Oh, and we have this—show them, Borg,” I said, smiling (perhaps a little smugly).
Everyone stared at Borg for a moment; Borg stared back. Finally, he very deliberately removed his pack, sat it on the floor, opened it up, rummaged around inside, and withdrew a flat, red, shiny, metallic object that was vaguely circular and about a foot wide. He held it up and pointed at it. “It’s a…dragon scale.”
(How, you ask, had we gotten a dragon scale? Turns out that dragons shed them pretty regularly, so it wasn’t all that much of an imposition for Melvin to root around on the ground of her lair and find one to give us. It was actually quite pretty to look at, which almost made up for the fact that we were carrying around someone’s dead, sloughed off skin. Okay, fine—we weren’t carrying it, but, hey—Borg volunteered.)
Finally, Skendrick’s best and brightest issued a collective gasp. “You’ve really, ah, done it!” shouted Alderman Wooddunny, beaming. “You’ve actually managed to defeat the dragon!”
“Ye kin nae argue aught wi’ a right piece o’ the bodkin, kin ye there, hamenpig?” roared Farmer Benton, clutching his pig tighter and eliciting a strangled squeal.
(I sincerely hope that’s the only time I ever have to write the words “clutching his pig tighter.”)
Various other slightly—slightly—more coherent exclamations abounded. After much back patting and an occasional shout of “Touching flesh is the devil’s playground!” from the Widow Gershon, the excitement subsided and everyone returned to their seats.
“We, ah, owe you a great debt of gratitude,” said the Alderman.
“Yeah, not bad,” said Betty Sue, nodding approvingly. “How did you do it?”
“Well,” I replied, “let’s just say we can be pretty persuasive. With our weapons, I mean.” I held up my knife. “We are killers, through and through.” I felt some commotion behind me and turned to see Rummy, who had picked up one of the spilled coins and was making it disappear and reappear, much to the delight of Farmer Benton (Betty Sue looked bored). I cleared my throat and glared at him; he shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Yes indeed—pure killers.”
“How can we ever thank you?” said Alderman Wooddunny, his eyes on the sacks of treasure. “Perhaps we might build an everlasting memorial to your, ah, legendary achievement, though, given the economic hardship we’ve endured over the course of the dragon’s reign of terror, we could, of course, use some, ah, seed money to build a monument worthy of your, ah, greatness.” He nodded his head toward the coins scattered across the floor.
“No!” shouted Whiska. “It’s mine—all mine, you hear?” She started scooping up every last loose coin…except for those that, unfortunately, had started to disappear.
“Hey,” I shouted loudly, trying to draw everyone’s attention away from the rather incriminating evidence that we did not, in fact, possess copious quantities of treasure and, as such, may not have actually slain a dragon. “A memorial! Wow! What a great idea. That would be flattering, and not the first time someone’s suggested such a tribute to me, you know—wink, wink. Don’t you hate it when people say ‘wink, wink’ instead of just winking? It’s obnoxious. You need to make sure to get my good side when you build it—no, no, I’m kidding! They’re all good sides. Can’t go wrong—not a bad one in the bunch. Should I be holding my lute or a knife? Hmmm…that’s a good question. Not sure who asked that one. I did? I suppose I did. I guess we only ask ourselves the toughest questions, don’t we?” I shook my head and blew out a deep breath. “I think the bottom line is that this backside really deserves to be immortalized. ‘Bottom line’—see what I did there? Backside? Bottom?”
Finally, Whiska had secured all of the coins (those that hadn’t disappeared, anyway) and had stuffed them back into the sacks.
“Well then,” I said in a slightly quieter, less crazy tone of voice. “Your village is safe. No more dragon attacks. We will, of course, take under advisement your exceedingly generous offer to fund our own memorial and give it proper consideration.”
“Just a minor point,” said Rummy, raising his index finger, “but both you and the Alderman called it a ‘memorial’ when I think you meant ‘monument.’ I’m pretty sure you only put up memorials for dead people.” He looked around. “Fortunately for us, I think we’re all still alive.”
“Most of the people in this room won’t be for long if we don’t get a drink,” muttered Whiska.
“Yes, let us, ah, supply our conquering heroes with, ah, libations of a celebratory nature,” proclaimed the Alderman, bringing his gavel down to officially (and mercifully) bring to a close the council session.
“Harlots!” shouted the Widow Gershon one last time, just for good measure.
And so we drank and ate and drank and drank some more and ate and then drank a little more. The people of Skendrick seemed genuinely grateful for our help and suitably impressed that we had actually killed a dragon. Betty Sue kept giving me the sideways stinkeye—I think she knew that something wasn’t quite right—but the nice thing about children, as a giant friend of mine once said, is that they’re as easy to ignore as they are to eat.
The celebration did, in fact, last for three days, and by the time it was over, every single person in Skendrick had promised to sing the group’s praises to anyone and everyone they met, ensuring, at the very least, the start of a formidable reputation. Considerably more than that would be needed, though, to spread Nadi’s band’s reputation far and wide (and to further convince the public that the dragon had, in fact, been killed), namely an epic tale told by a highly skilled bard, one that would be beloved and sung by other bards by virtue of its infectious melody and rhythm, compelling action and colorful characters, and the persuasive charms of its impossibly intelligent and gifted author.
It’s hard to believe that we just marked the fifty-year anniversary of that celebration in Skendrick. It’s a relief that I can now, at long last, tell the story behind the story.
I wrote the epic tale you’ve heard so many times at your favorite local tavern for two reasons: to burnish the reputation of Nadi’s band (which, incidentally, worked remarkably well) and to uphold our end of the bargain with the dragon by dissuading would-be treasure hunters from seeking out her lair so that she could finally get some peace and quiet.
I always wanted to tell the real story, though, which, frankly, I find more interesting, and not just because I play a central role. (Though, let’s face it—that would make any story more interesting; just wait until you hear about the shenanigans I’ve gotten into lately with my new adventuring partner, Grimple, a hill giant who, through numerous acts of stupidity, got turned into a sickly gnome, and the insanity we had to go through to get him cured of that condition…coming soon from the same disreputable publisher as the book you now hold in your hands.) No, the real story is more interesting because it shows the human side of adventuring.