You Slay One Dragon and it Ruins Your Whole Life.

(I wrote a story)

Photo by Carlos Cram on Unsplash

Jack stared morosely at the bowl in front of him. The stew here was better than most taverns in town, but he’d barely tasted the few bites he’d taken. His senses were occupied by the shapes barely visible in the corner of his eye. Don’t look at them Jack, you’ll only encourage them. Just eat your stew. Holy light above, you’re not in a place to waste coin. The rational part of his mind muttered sound advice which the rest of Jack promptly ignored.

With a sigh, he turned to the crowd that had gathered around him. They gasped, awed by his attention and oblivious to his frustration in equal measure. “It’s really him!” cried a young woman, somewhere in the middle of the throng.

At least it was only about a half dozen this time. Better than usual, but still too many for any chance to slink back to an anonymous dinner.  Jack had chosen a table far from the fire, hoping to hide in the shadows. Unfortunately, this just meant there were no patrons to stop the gawking crowd from claiming the benches nearest him.

By the looks of the barmaid coming with their fresh order of drinks they had settled in for a long evening of bothering Jack. They wouldn’t budge without a show, and Jack resigned himself to the inevitable.

Turning in his seat, Jack sized up the group. Two portly caravan merchants, their boots still dusty from the road. An old man deep in his cups, his white beard stained yellow around the mouth. A town guard, trying to look stern and professional but failing to hide the excitement in his eyes. And two tittering young women in homespun clothing and glinting jewelry – noble daughters pretending to be commoners, out for a bit of slumming.

He pointed his stew spoon at his unwanted admirers, his expression as serious as if he was wielding forged steel. “Yes, I’m Jack the…” he sighed heavily “dragon slayer. You found him. Congratulations and huzzah.”

Jack stood and made a sarcastic sweeping bow, flicking the remains of his stew on the guardsman’s boots as he waved his hand. “I’m sure this must be very exciting to all of you, but it is less so for me. So I will answer the questions I always get so I can go back to my rapidly cooling dinner.”

“Yes, I killed the dragon that burned Towsen and ate a half-dozen of the king’s knights. No, it wasn’t easy. Yes, I was scared.”

Jack suppressed a shudder through long practice, his mind flashing back to the worst day of his life. Gasping for air and pulling in nothing but heat, the dragon’s fire burning away all the oxygen in the cave. The rows and rows and rows of teeth. The sword in his hand, useless as a child’s toy. He hadn’t even noticed when he dropped it.

He fixed his gaze on the two young women, aiming the spoon at each in turn as if to skewer them one by one. “No, I will not sleep with you.” The spoon twitched towards the guardsman. “Nor you.” He paused for a moment as the spoon pointed towards the old drunk, then dropped his voice to a sultry whisper. “You… I might consider.”

The dragon had killed the knights immediately, mildly annoyed by the pricks of their longswords. Then it had chased him through the treasure piles for sport. For seconds? hours? he had run through king’s ransom after king’s ransom, claw and flame and teeth always inches behind. He ran even though he knew the dragon was toying with him, even though he knew he was dead. He ran until he tripped, fell into a gleaming pile… and stood with something new shimmering in his hand.

His whisper got a laugh, as it always did. Tell them no, they might get upset. His mind whispered a familiar refrain. Make them laugh, give a diversion before they stop smiling, and they’ll forget what they wanted until well after you’re gone.

Of course, Jack would remember. He’d lie in another lonely bed tonight, thinking about the look of disappointment on two lovely faces, and what those faces might look like with an entirely different expression. But he was past the point where he could safely enjoy those pleasures.

Say yes to one night with a lass who believes you own a dragon’s horde and sure as clockwork, she’s chasing you down nine months later with a baby that isn’t yours. Say no, and that lovely noble’s daughter will go home and cry to her rich father and poor Jack will spend another weekend in the stocks.

So smooth talking and clever jokes were the only way. Jack didn’t mind, truthfully. He’d never been strong, failing his teenage apprenticeship with the smith after his tenth lumpy horseshoe. His hands stumbled over any skilled task, ending his apprenticeship with the tavern bard in a jangle of broken lute strings. But he loved words, and they danced to his command. With the right words, he could do anything…

Like talk your way into Sir Sulfin’s dragon slaying expedition? That was a great idea. They believed you when you said you were a bard and would compose a ballad for them. You should have believed them when they said it was dangerous.

His mind settled into a familiar battle as his mouth continued to charm the crowd, the words so well-worn he barely needed to attend to them. I had three coppers in my pocket, no prospects, and Ma couldn’t afford another mouth at home he argued with himself. Sulfin was a legend. He was going to kill it quick and easy, and he said I could take a few gold pieces from the horde. I’d be set for months…

The dragon had thrashed as it died, thick tail slamming into the walls of the cave over and over as it roared in furious agony. The cave began to collapse almost immediately. Jack didn’t remember running out. He didn’t remember continuing to run until his legs dropped out from beneath him.

He did remember waking up with his ears still ringing, and his hands still clutched tight around the sword that had killed a dragon with a single cut. He remembered the futile day searching for the entrance to the dragon’s cave, but one pile of collapsed rubble looks much like the other, and he was hungry and hurt all over and more tired than he’d ever been. Jack had returned to town with nothing but a story and a lost fortune everyone else thought he had found.

With a force of will, Jack pulled his mind back from the memories. His hand twitched towards the scabbard on his hip before he stopped himself. His sword hand was still threatening the crowd with the spoon and besides, if he drew the blade it would be another hour before he could get rid of this crowd.

He went through the motions of chattering with the crowd for a few more moments, and finally got them to scatter after he offered the guardsman a few (completely made up) tips for what to do if a dragon ever threatened the town. Then, wearily, he returned to his lukewarm stew.

Only to find the bearded drunk sitting across from him, eating the last of Jack’s meal.

His spoon clattered to the ground as Jack sank into his seat, burying his head in his hands . “You know what? Fine” he said, his muffled voice barley audible. “Nine hells, I don’t even care any more. Eat my stew. I’d rather starve than deal with…” Jack’s head slumped forward onto the table as his hands waved around, ambiguously signifying the drunk, the tavern, or the general slog of existence.

The drunk slurped the last of the stew. “Actually, Mr. Bartleby, I have a proposition for you.” Jack sat up suddenly, hand going fully to his hilt this time. People knew him as “Jack the dragon slayer.” Nobody outside his hometown knew him as one of Ma Bartleby’s kids, and nobody in his hometown would have traveled this far. This old drunk knew him, and Jack had no idea why.

Jack forced a smile to his face. “I actually, uh, was joking when I said I’d consider an…intimate interlude…with you.” Use your words, use your humor, stay in control. Keep him laughing until you stop panicking.

The drunk’s smile in return was genuine, and Jack noticed for the first time his eyes were alert and cunning. The old man’s mug sat at his elbow, still nearly full despite his show of swilling from it all night. “Name’s Yortise. Spellbinder Yortise.”

Spellbinder was the title for a magic user who had passed a grueling proficiency test demonstrating true skill in the magic arts. It was uncommon but not rare for someone to manifest a bit of magical talent, which was helpful for mundane tasks and not much more. Making a spark without tinder, keeping your boots dry in the mud, that sort of magic was common enough.

But calling down thunder from the sky? Summoning a griffin and bending it to your will? Only spellbinders could do that. And only those who had been gifted with a prodigious natural talent – and the discipline to refine and strengthen it – could ever become a spellbinder.

There was no magic university or royal decree governing the spellbinders. The rule for becoming a spellbinder was simple. You just had to call yourself one.

Within a few moments, the nearest spellbinder would notice, teleport to you, and do their darndest to kill you. If you could hold your own for three minutes, they would take you to the newest inn, buy you an ale and announce that you were officially a spellbinder. If you surrendered, they would buy you an ale and gently counsel you to consider accounting instead. If you kept fighting even after it was clear you’d lost…you’d become a cautionary tale.

Jack tensed unconsciously, waiting for an angry spellbinder to burst in and try to melt Yortise on the spot. When nothing happened, his eyes widened. “You’re…you’re actually a spellbinder!”

“Yes.” The old man’s eyes were dancing, clearly enjoying himself. “And you’re actually a dragon slayer, as much as you mope around pretending you’re not.” The man extended a finger, interrupting Jack’s protest before it could start.

“I know it was luck, Mr. Bartleby. I know you wouldn’t have stood a chance unless you happened upon a magic sword that just happens to strike truest in an unpracticed hand.”

Yortise spread his hands, grinning. “But I also know it wasn’t luck. A magic sword like that…giving off so much power that it tickled my balls from the next town over.” Yortise leaned forward. “Well, a sword like that has a will of its own. That kind of magic doesn’t wait passively until it’s picked up. It guides the right hand to it.

Jack frowned and glanced down at his scabbard. “Ok, fine. So a magic sword took pity on me. So what?”

Yortise clapped his hands, “So, Mr. Bartleby! Your pitying magic sword has given you a doorway to gainful employment. You see, you’ve been doing this all wrong. BEING a hero is terrible – all bloody battles and untimely deaths. But HAVING BEEN a hero…well, that’s a cushy gig.”

The spellbinder snapped his fingers once and the empty stew bowl flew inerrantly to a nearby table. He snapped his fingers a second time and a map of the kingdom blossomed on the table in the bowl’s place. Jack tried and failed to keep the astonishment from his face. Spellbinders showed up in king’s courts and storybook pages. They didn’t belong in an ordinary tavern, especially not an ordinary tavern with lukewarm stew.

Yortise stabbed a finger at a city on the outskirts of the map. “Auflin. Bigger than the backwater we’re in now, a little smudge on the map compared to Kingshaven. Last stop on the King’s road before a huge elven forest.”

“The elves are still plenty cowed after the last war – the forest elves might not have the long lives of their prancy cousins in the floating cities, but their memories are plenty long, and the whomping we gave them still stings. They’ve no intention of stirring up trouble.”

“But it’s easy for a rumor to get out of control. A lad gets lucky once, and suddenly everyone thinks he’s a dragon slayer.” Yortise’s eyes twinkled as he winked at Jack. “A few young townsfolk go missing, a popular woodsman say he saw dark shapes roaming in the woods, an elf trader hears one slur too many and throws a punch, and suddenly the town is frothing at the mouth convinced an elven invasion is imminent. The town council hires a wise and blindly handsome spellbinder to look into things and he quickly realizes both that nothing is wrong and that nobody will believe him if he tells them.”

The wizard started to roll up the map and stuff it back in his bag, his magic apparently better suited to dramatic reveals than careful storage. “That’s where you come in. Again, there’s no real danger, but the townsfolk are convinced the elves are on the warpath. So what stops the pot from boiling over?”

Yortise waited patiently for Jack to start a reply, then immediately interrupted him.

“Well, what if a mighty hero – a dragon slayer, perhaps – were to be hired to protect the town? Surely the cowardly pointy-ears wouldn’t try anything then? The good townsfolk can sleep easy at night, the elves avoid a pitchfork mob. The hero gets a salary, a free house, and a grateful town. Everyone’s happy.”

“Especially the hero” Yortise tapped Jack on the nose with a wizened finger “Who doesn’t exactly have any other options right now.”

Jack sighed and ran a hand through his unkempt blonde hair. “But why me? Why not get one of the king’s knights, or…” Yortise tutted, cutting Jack off.

“First, the king’s knights are actual heroes. No offense.” Jack shrugged, strangely grateful for the reprieve from hero worship. “A good knight would never be content just sitting around. They’d undoubtedly tear off into the forest their first day there looking for monsters or elven warlords, and likely cause more trouble than they’re worth. Second… have you heard the stories about you, Jack? I mean, really listened to them?”

Jack shook his head. The time he heard a bard singing The Ballad Of Jack Dragon Slayer he had barely been able to stifle his rage, the cheerful tune like sandpaper against the raw wound of his memories. The second time had brought back the same memories but despondent weeping instead of anger. After that, a part of his mind always listened for the first few notes, and pulled his attention away from the words anytime the song started.

“People believe you’re a bona-fide hero, Jack. Like something out of the stories the bards tell little kids. Knights are impressive, sure. But they’re only human. People…think of you as something else.”

The dragon slayer sighed and sank his head into his hands. Yortise waited patiently, humming the chorus from The Ballad Of Jack Dragon Slayer under his breath.

In the relative privacy of his steepled fingers, Jack thought furiously. His purse was nearly empty. He was desperately lonely, forced to humor his admirers and unable to have real conversation. And the spellbinder had eaten his stew.

He would give almost anything to go back to his old life. Except…

Except sometimes, the crowds around him would include a child. A young boy or girl, clutching a wooden sword. And when Jack met their eyes, he realized they weren’t seeing him.

They were seeing themselves. They were imagining themselves in his place, brave, heroic. And they left his presence standing a little taller, with a little more courage in their pockets.

Deepest of the nine hells, there were worse jobs than calming townsfolk and inspiring children.

Jack sat up, straighter than he had in weeks. “Tell me what I have to do” he said.

His voice only trembled a little.