The Descent of Dragons

The Descent of Dragons

a Greenmeadows story by Stephen Brooke

“Before man, was the race of dragons. Not formed were they, like men, in the image of the gods, nor were their minds like those of men.

“In those days—”

“Just how long ago was this?”

Ransax looked up from his volume, his annoyance obvious—to those who knew dragons. “Millions of years, I’m sure.”

“Millions?” objected Sir Grissol. “Surely the world hasn’t been around that long!” He noted his scaly friend’s expression and decided to drop the subject. “Well, go on.”

“In those days,” continued Ransax, settling down again to his reading, “only wild beasts roamed the earth. And the gods said, Let us raise up the beasts, so they might know us.”

“You say this is a holy text, Randy?” asked the old knight. “I always thought you dragons were a rather, well, skeptical bunch.”

“Indeed,” replied the dragon. “That does not mean we haven’t our traditions. Though,” he added, with a slight, steamy chuckle, “we may not take them quite so literally as humans do.”

“Hmmph. I do believe that might have been intended as an insult.”

“You are what you are.” Ransax shrugged, his wings stirring up a faint breeze in the study. Dust wafted from atop the high, disorderly stacks of books.

“Our holy texts are repositories of dragon wisdom. And,” he added, “often pretty good stories. We dragons do love stories.”

Grissol Greenmeadows gave him a knowing smile. “This is one human who has learned not to take your stories quite so literally. I realize you like to, um, embellish.”

“Perhaps, a smidgen,” admitted Ransax. “But back to the Draconotheca.

“Many were the creatures they shaped, creatures of the air and of the sea and of the earth. Then of the stock of the weasel and badger, creatures that dwell in the earth, fierce, cunning, they created the dragons.”

“So you’re actually a—a weasel?” gasped the knight. “Everyone thinks you’re reptiles!”

“And we usually do not attempt to disabuse them of the notion. Or we eat them before the subject comes up. But after all, Greenmeadows, do I truly seem very lizard-like? I’m not exactly cold-blooded, after all!”

“Well, I had wondered about the ears,” admitted Sir Grissol. “Never seen a snake with ears.”

Ransax pricked his large fox-like ears. “The better to hear you with, my friend.”

Sir Grissol chuckled. “That’s a good line. Someone should use it in a story.”

“I suppose so. Anyway, your folk tend to confuse us with the wyverns, who are reptiles. To our eyes we seem nothing alike but then you humans all look much the same to us. Incidentally,” added Ransax, “the gods formed your race of the apes. It is rather obvious to my people that they didn’t raise you very far.”

“At least we left our trees,” huffed Grissol. “You still live in a hole in the ground.”

“Ha, quite true, my friend, quite true. I admittedly can’t see you climbing a tree.”

Grissol, for a moment, recalled a much younger version of himself doing just that. Ah, the apples that grew in his neighbor’s orchard! And his neighbor’s daughter who might be found there as well—hmm, no need to mention any of that to this dragon. “So, you were raised up from weasels and we can claim the monkeys as our ancestors. Did the gods mess about with any other animals?”

“There is something about that in here,” replied Ransax, leafing through his tome. “Not much though, as I remember. This book concentrates on my own people.” He stopped and peered at a page. “Ah, yes. There were eagles. Or maybe hawks? It’s a bit unclear. And the dolphins, of course. In other words,” said the dragon, looking at his companion over the top of the out-sized book, “one intelligent race for each of the four elements.”

“Dragons are fire, right?”

“No. Earth. You sun-loving humans are the People of the Fire.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” admitted the elderly knight. With a chuckle, he added, “I could be pretty hotheaded as a youth.”

Ransax was still poring over his text. “Yes, eagles. It makes sense that they would have to be fairly large to be more than bird-brains.” He shut the Draconotheca and placed it atop a tall stack of books. “I shall have to sort these out someday,” he mused. “Speaking of descending, I just received some new barrels of Saragossan wine. What say we go down to the cellar and sample it?”

“I thought this was a cellar,” said Grissol. It was downstairs from the living quarters, wasn’t it?

“I have cellars below cellars below cellars here, my friend,” claimed the dragon. “After all,” he added, with a wink, “I have to hide my treasure somewhere.”

Grissol Greenmeadows snorted. “I keep hearing of this treasure but I’ve never seen any of it.” He rose from the overstuffed chair and stretched. “But I’ll settle for seeing some of your wine right now.”

“Bring along a lamp, will you? I know you humans don’t see that well in the dark.”

Lord Ransax led the way, down a dim hallway and then a stair. “We dragons tend to be secretive about our hordes. In the blood, you know?” he told the knight, with a slightly embarrassed air. “I’ll admit I sometimes go down and sleep on it. It’s a bad habit but it is something my people do.”

“Sounds deucedly uncomfortable to me,” opined Sir Grissol. “And cold.”

“Dragon bodies tend to heat up any space they occupy rather quickly,” replied his host. “Lying on a cool pile of gold can actually be quite refreshing. Ah, here we are.” He pushed open a heavy oaken door. “Hmm, I thought I locked that after the delivery.”

Stacks of barrels and racks of bottles lined the walls of the chamber. It was a well-stocked wine cellar indeed and the knight felt a twinge of envy when he thought of his own few small casks of port.

“The new stuff is over here.” Ransax shook his head. “That barrel shouldn’t be on its end. Monsieur Biber’s delivery men know better than that.”

“Biber, eh? I can’t afford to deal with him.” Grissol ambled over to the barrel, marked ‘M. Biber,’ meaning to put it onto its side—and perhaps sample it. It tipped over readily on its own. The loose lid fell off and rolled across the stone floor. “I say, this one is already drained!”

Ransax looked into the empty keg and sniffed suspiciously. “There was a human in this barrel.” His long nose wrinkled. “Or I think it was a human. Slightly odd scent to it.”

“An intruder?” asked Grissol. “Ah! Your treasure!”

The dragon immediately turned and started for the doorway. “Follow me,” came his curt order. To the right and down stairs hewn from the stone they hurried, Sir Grissol huffing at the exertion of keeping up with the dragon. He had never seen this part of his friend’s lair, nor even knew it existed.

Nor had he ever seen the dragon so focused. “I can still catch the scent,” growled Ransax. “Definitely headed for my treasure chamber. Watch your head.”

The rough rocky tunnel was too dark for Grissol to see any ceiling. Not by the light of the little oil lamp he carried. He reached upward and couldn’t touch it. More of a concern for the dragon, maybe. Ransax halted and looked back at his companion.

“He’s seen it now, and knows the way. I suppose I should eat him.” He gave Grissol a sidelong look. “You would have to go all knightly on me, wouldn’t you?”

“Afraid so, old boy. Can’t have you eating people in my neighborhood.”

“Well, here we are.” There was no door, only a hole in the rock. This was all natural cave down here, Grissol suspected. He held high his light.

With a great foghorn of a bellow, Ransax sprang into the chamber, only to stop short.

“Why that’s no man!” exclaimed Sir Grissol. Before them stood a somewhat diminutive dragon. Diminutive beside the impressive Lord Ransax, that is, who approached a ton and a half in weight. Other dragons, naturally, could recognize that Ransax was fat and old, but to human eyes he was simply very large.

This dragon scaled at maybe a third of that and was several feet shorter. “Draubax?”

It hung its head and murmured, “Hi, Grandpa.”

“So you were in that barrel. And in human form?”

“Yes, sir,” admitted the young worm.

Grissol knew dragons could do this and had seen Ransax as a rather disreputable-looking fat old man on occasion, but had never been there for the actual changing of form. He wondered briefly whether the dragon was just as weighty when it was human. That would have made for a decidedly heavy barrel!

“I sneaked into the winery and hid,” continued Draubax. “I—I wanted to see your treasure! I’ll have a pile like this someday!”

“Ha, you’d probably like to steal mine, boy!” Ransax thundered.

The young dragon cringed. “No, sir, no! I wouldn’t think of it.”

“Don’t be silly,” his grandfather told him. “Of course you would. You’re supposed to! That’s what we dragons do.”

Grissol Greenmeadows, meanwhile, was quietly surveying the glittering heap of treasure. “As untidy as the rest of your place, Randy,” he stated.

“I know exactly where every coin is,” came the reply. “And if any are missing—” Ransax gave his grandson an exaggeratedly menacing look, before whispering to Grissol, “Were that another dragon he would not leave here alive. But Draubax is family. From one of my daughter’s litters.”

“I know where it is also, now,” observed the knight.

“That doesn’t worry me. The butler knows his way down here too. I trust him to be discreet. I tend to be secretive with humans just on general principle and with dragons on long experience.”

He turned back to the other dragon. “It is bad enough, young fellow, that you know about my treasure now. What is worse, I am short a butt of wine!”

“It was only a puncheon,” Grissol observed.

“Well, still quite a lot of wine,” fumed Ransax. “Wine I paid for!” He regarded the young dragon for some time, apparently pondering. “So what do I do with you? Lock you up down here?”

“With the hoard? He might enjoy that.”

The great dragon started to snicker. It grew into guffaws. “Indeed he would! Well, come along upstairs, boy, and we’ll think about this.”

Draubax quietly followed them back to the library. There, his grandfather suddenly demanded, “Show me your human shape!”

The young dragon eyed Grissol. “In front of him?”

“Think of him as family. Your dear old Uncle Grissol.”

Said uncle harumphed rather loudly. Draubax simply shrugged and slowly began to change, growing smaller, bat-like wings becoming arms, tail and nose shortening. It took a few minutes before a chubby teenage boy, fairly normal aside from his stub of a tail, stood before them.

Ransax looked him over. “Very well. Until I tell you otherwise, you will remain in that form, my boy.” His voice became a couple tones lower and decidedly more menacing. “And you’d better behave or I’ll cut off your tail!”

The lad gasped. In a whispered aside—one the dragon-boy could undoubtedly hear—Ransax told his friend, “He wouldn’t be able to return to his dragon form till it grew back. In a decade or two. It’s sort of our connection to our other self.

“Greeves,” he called. “Come in here, will you?”

The butler entered at once. He gave the naked boy but the slightest of glances. “Sir?”

“The lad here will be staying with us a while. Fix him up with a room, will you? And see if you can find him some clothes.” He turned back to his grandson. “Hmm, you should have a human name, shouldn’t you? Ever use one?”

“No, sir.” Draubax might have seemed offended were he not already so cowed.

“How about Drab?” suggested Grissol Greenmeadows.

“Splendid! Drab you are.”

“Do I have a say?” asked the newly-named Drab.

“Absolutely not. Now run along and do what Greeves tells you.”

“That was interesting,” commented Grissol, once the two had departed. “Always wondered about how you changed. Ha, I guess I still do!”

“Most understandable, Greenmeadows. You see, we don’t change in quite the sense you’re probably thinking. We keep our alternate forms in, um, what you might call another world, and switch them out. What looks like a transformation is really one body going away and another coming.

“Hmm. That actually makes a sort of sense.”

“Don’t I always make sense?” inquired Ransax.

Grissol ignored the question. “Other worlds, eh? I say, do werewolves do the same sort of trick?”

“They do, indeed, except in their case the wolf demon already existed in another world and became entangled with a mortal human.”

“Oh! Hmm, could you cut off their tails to cure them?”

“Doesn’t work quite the same way, I’m afraid. Now what am I going to do with that dragonling? I can’t let him go spreading stories about my horde or how he tricked me. And I don’t much want him living with me, family or not.”

“Your daughter’s boy, you say? Does this mean you had a wife at some point?”

“I still do. We mate for life but can not stand to live with our mates for very long. So we visit from time to time. During the mating season, of course, but also we sometimes simply miss each other and our families.” His sigh might have suggested he missed that family right then. Or it might have meant something else entirely. “I should probably let them know where Draubax is.”

“Drab, you mean.”

“Drab, indeed. It can wait. Annex should keep a better eye on her boy but I remember well how rebellious young dragons are at that age. That’s why a fair number don’t get past that age.”

Sir Grissol had a feeling Draubax might not if he spent much time in the cave of his grandfather. “How about letting him come and stay with me a few days? Get him out of your hair, so to speak. Or scales.”

Ransax gave him a most skeptical look. “Are you sure of that?”

“How much trouble could he be?” At once he told himself it was a stupid question. Teenage boys, whether human or dragon, were, well, teenage boys. “I’ll make him my esquire.”

“That’s rather impetuous. But so be it.”

“If young Drab is willing,” Grissol added.

“Whether he is or not,” came the dragon’s reply. “Greeves! Get that boy in here!”

An hour later, the unwilling Drab walked beside Grissol, who led his horse. He had found the dragon-boy had no idea of how to ride, nor how to do much of anything human. Rarely had Drab been beyond the mountains and the company of other dragons. Greeves had found him a kilt and blouse, both at least three sizes too large, and a straw hat for his big round head. The hair on that head was thick and black. The face below it was sullen.

But he was beginning to take interest in the things they passed, despite himself. Women, in particular. They continued, neither in any hurry, to the River Acerola, the border between Pitanga and Carambola, and the wooden toll bridge spanning it.

“So who be this?” asked the man at the turn-pike, giving the boy a friendly but curious look. Strangers were far from common. Moreover, the lad would be something to gossip about later at the tavern.

“My new esquire, Master Drab. I say, does he get the children’s rate?”

The soldier shook his head. “Too big. That’ll be tuppence for the both of you and a farthing for Battercap. Not making old Batter carry you today, eh? I reckon she appreciates that.”

There might have been a veiled comment on the knight’s ample midsection in that but he chose to ignore it and led boy and horse across. Stepping onto solid ground, he told Drab, “We’re in the kingdom where I live now. It’s not far to my keep.”

“Then we’re not in Grandfather’s country anymore? What’s it called?”

“Pitanga. But you’re definitely not beyond his reach.” He noted the sobering effect that had and went on. “You may be ignorant of most things knightly—or even human—but I think you are an enterprising lad. The way you got into your grandfather’s cave is evidence of that!”

For the first time, Grissol saw a smile on the boy’s face. “It was a pretty good trick, wasn’t it?”

“It would have been if you’d thought it through and had a way to leave his cave.”

“With his treasure!” Drab beamed at that thought.

Grissol didn’t think much of it. An irate Ransax would not make a good neighbor. Drab was looking at women again. Girls this time. From the corner of his eye, he watched a pair pass them on the path.

“I’ve never seen a girl up close before,” he said, perhaps a bit wistfully. “I wonder how they look without their clothes.”

“You’re not the first.” Apparently, along with a human form went a human nature and a human interest in the opposite sex. “You know, they were looking at you too.”

“They were?” He might have puffed out his chest just a bit.

“They were. I would recommend you not show them your tail, however. Here’s my place. Greenmeadows Manor.”

Drab politely avoided being critical of the little manor house. “I’ll, um, live here? For a while?”

“If you wish. There’s really nothing to stop you from changing back into a dragon and flying away, is there? I mean, Ransax might be peeved at your disobedience but he wouldn’t go after you.”

“And cut off my tail?” The boy smirked. “I don’t think so. It might be best to keep Grandpa happy though. For a while, as I said. Are there girls here?”

“There’s a whole kingdom full of them.”

“Good,” said Grissol’s new esquire, and followed him in.

appears in Lands Far Away 2021

Fair Games

FAIR GAMES

a Greenmeadows story by Stephen Brooke

Two elderly gentlemen strolled beside the river. The bald but sprightly fellow with the long white mustaches everyone knew; Sir Grissol Greenmeadows was a legendary adventurer in his youth and a voice of reason in his old age—a voice his liege, the King of Carambola, frequently needed to hear.

The other man, portly and bearded, was a mystery to many. A very few knew this was the human form of the retired dragon Ransax, who owned a commodious cave in the Principality of Pitanga. Greenmeadows spoke only of him as his friend Randy.

“I’m glad there is no jousting at this fair,” said Randy. “Knights with spears always make me nervous.”

“Don’t care for ’em that much myself. Leave fighting to the battlefield, I say, and find more enjoyable forms of recreation.” His eyes lingered on Dame Amanita as she passed by.

“Women are the most dangerous recreation of all,” opined Ransax. As most dragons, he avoided the opposite sex except during mating season.

“But worth the rewards, my friend! Even when one loses the game.”

“Hmmph. No one wins that game. The wise quit when they’re ahead. Or not too far behind.”

Sir Grissol only shook his head. “There are dragon sports, I would assume.”

“To be sure. When I was young I would enjoy a bit of one-on-one air hockey. The idea is to keep the, um, puck from hitting the ground. That’s a point for the other dragon.”

“Puck?”

“Oh, we would use whatever was handy—sheep, knights, boulders. We’d toss them around for hours, though some hold up better than others. Once a sheep has been spiked into the ground it’s pretty useless.”

Grissol preferred not to ask about knights. Even in full armor, he suspected they would soon need replacement.

Two other not-so-old gentlemen strolled toward them. Both these were quite well known for they were the respective rulers of Pitanga and Carambola, which lay on either side of the river. They styled themselves friendly rivals but anyone could tell they were most unfriendly. On this one day of the Fair, the two must be civil to each other.

Each had a long, ground-brushing beard. They had been competing to outgrow each other’s whiskers since they were in their teens. There was still no clear winner.

This was a day they did hope to name winners. Hidalgus and Barbacuso took great interest in the competitions between the citizens of their realms.

“Your highnesses,” Grissol greeted them. Strictly speaking, perhaps, the Prince of Pitanga did not qualify as an ‘highness.’ It was better not to chance slighting him.

Hidalgus of Carambola returned the greeting. They were ambling along his side of the River Acerola so that was proper. “Lord Ransax. Sir Grissol.”

Barbacuso mumbled something similar.

“Enjoy the fair, gentlemen,” Hidalgus went on. “It promises to be a good day for Carambola.” Prince Barabacuso scowled at that. “By the way, Ransax, I appreciate what you did for my boy Pedro.”

“He’s a good lad,” said Ransax.

“That he is,” agreed Barabacuso. “Takes after his mother.” By which he meant Queen Styrfreya, who just happened to be the prince’s sister.

Grissol felt the boy took after no one in either family.

“Always a welcome visitor at my cave,” the dragon went on. “Glad to help him get settled.” He bowed to the monarchs and both pairs passed on their ways.

“Settled far from here,” he confided when they were beyond earshot. “With a good wife and a crown awaiting him.”

“He’s one man who won the game of romance,” observed Grissol.

“Maybe so. At least the first round. Is this a game being played here?” There were two crowds of peasants at either end of a grassy space. Someone in the group to their left shouted out, “Red Rober, Red Rober, send beer to the sober!”

Two men in long red robes raced across the field with full foaming flagons. “It seems to be,” ventured Sir Grissol. “What the rules might be I’ve no idea.” If there were rules. “It might just be an excuse to drink beer.”

“Since when have the men of either realm needed an excuse?”

“Giles spilled more,” a voice called out. “A point for Pitanga!”

“It is an excuse to drink beer,” noted Ransax. The man and the dragon strolled on.

Other games were played all about them. A group of youngsters were engrossed in Roll Out, rolling each other down a hill and betting on whether they would end up on one of the black or red blankets spread at the bottom. If they rolled off onto the green grass it didn’t count. A tournament of Parmesancheesi attracted older—but just as avid—players. Vendors wandered through the crowd, loudly hawking their wares, trinkets and treats.

Some of the treats ended up being used in a game of Biscuit Ball between two packs of unruly children. The object seemed to be to pelt each other with them. Nearby, a rowdy group of teenagers played Smear the Peer. They took turns chasing and piling atop whichever lad wore a paper crown. The boys were decidedly enthusiastic about both smashing and smearing. Especially as young ladies happened to be watching.

Grissol had already been an esquire at their age. That position had provided him with more effective means of impressing girls.

“They say we’re all even,” a passerby commented to his mate. “Them Pitangans are tougher ’n they look.”

“We’ll get ’em in the next game. It should be a drinkin’ game. Carambolans always win those!”

Out in the field ahead of them, a group was playing Spin the Tail on the Donkey. The donkey was being most recalcitrant about this, refusing to allow his tail to turn clockwise. “It’s sorcery!” claimed a man in a robe that might have once been white. “The Carambolans have bewitched the beast.”

“Right,” groused another. “They’ve put a spell on the old fellow so his tail only goes the one way.”

“I assume,” whispered Randy, “that Pitangans and Carmabolans want it to turn different directions.”

Grissol nodded. “And the poor donkey doesn’t want it to spin at all. That’s Brother Rencoro complaining, isn’t it? He always finds something.”

The man suddenly stood up straight, raising his arms to the sky. “No more cheating! I call upon the demon of sports!” he cried out. “Great N’ca’a, attend us!”

“Not again,” someone sighed.

“Every time!” said another.

“Rencoro is an amateur wizard,” the knight confided to Ransax. “He just has to summon something every now and again.”

An odd figure was taking form before their eyes. Its most striking feature was its black and white stripes. And its head, which was a great shiny whistle. It whistled loudly now. “Anyone who doesn’t quiet down goes in the penalty box,” it declared.

“Penalty box?” whispered Ransax.

“It’s wearing it on its belt. Never goes anywhere without it.”

The dragon eyed it. “I don’t believe I’d fit.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Hmm. I believe I’d just as soon not find out.”

The demon N’ca’a went over to the donkey and tickled its rear with a grass stalk. The tail spun clockwise. “No penalty! Resume play!”

Brother Rencoro at once jumped up. “That ain’t right, sir! They were obviously cheating!”

“N’ca’a’s decisions on the field will not be questioned! To the penalty box!” With that he stuffed the man, long robe and all, into his box. There were subdued murmurs all around but no more complaints.

With that, the demon made the rounds of the ongoing games, blowing his whistle and assigning penalties as he saw necessary. Very rarely did anyone else see them necessary but that did not seem to bother him. “There goes all our fun,” Grissol heard, and, “We might as well head home.”

Maybe he and Ransax should go as well, he was thinking, when the two monarchs moved far too purposefully in their direction. No chance to dodge them.

“We’re ahead,” declared Hidalgus of Carambola, “and there’s just one game to go.”

Barbacuso scowled. “You’re only up one point.”

“So you could end in a draw?” asked Ransax.

Both scowled now. “No one wants that.” Hidalgus turned to his rival. “Let’s make it a two of three sort of thing so I can beat you soundly.”

Barbacuso seemed to be thinking this through. He brightened suddenly. “Oh, I could win, I mean, Pitanga could win overall if we take all three. You’re on, Hidalgus.”

“So what is this final contest?” asked Ransax. Grissol knew already.

“Tug of war. And we want you two to captain our teams.”

That, Grissol had not known. “Surely you’d want younger men, your highnesses. We’re not going to add much muscle.”

“But plenty of weight,” Prince Barbacuso pointed out. “Now, let’s get to it.”

They slowly got their teams sorted out. Some of the men weren’t sure which country they belonged with, this late in the day. Eventually, a score grasped each end of the stout rope, with Grissol and Ransax in the anchor positions—as far from the mud puddle between them as possible. Each had quite independently decided to let go if they were pulled anywhere near it.

So there was groaning and growling and pulling and straining for a few minutes before the Pitangans slowly began to slide forward. It wasn’t much longer before the first of them reached the mud.

“Carambola wins the first round,” announced N’ca’a. There was cheering and more beering. Grissol made sure to wave to Dame Amanita. This was his own opportunity to impress girls.

Barbacuso was close to complete defeat. Even he could recognize that. “There’s no rule we have to use the same teams for the next round, is there?” he asked.

Hidalgus only laughed. “I’m all right with it. You’ve already had your best men beaten.”

“Then I challenge you to make it women against women this time.”

The King of Carambola considered it only a moment. “Why not? There’s no chance we can lose now.” He gave N’ca’a a sidelong look. “Any rules against it?”

“None. But it will have to be all women on each side.”

“Looks like we can sit this one out, my friend,” Grissol told Ransax. The dragon only nodded and went off to confer with his prince after a while.

Something was banging inside the penalty box. N’ca’a glanced down at it. “Another twenty seconds,” he said. “Are our teams ready?”

They were, and looked every bit as sturdy as the contestants in the previous round. Strong farm girls, stout serving maids and cooks, grabbed the rope and pulled with their combined strength and weight. This time, it was the Carambolans who were finally edged into the mud.

Sometime during the struggle, Brother Rencoro had been released, seemingly none the worse for wear. He did complain of a sore back for several days thereafter. “Cramped in there, it was,” he complained to any who would listen.

Hidalgus was unhappy but he was still ahead. The best his rival could manage was a draw. However, just to be safe, he insisted, “Men again this time.”

Barbacus smiled. “All my contestants will be male.”

And Ransax would anchor the team—as a dragon. He had transformed while the women contended and now strolled onto the field.

“Hey, yer bringin’ in a ringer!” someone complained.

“I assure you, sir, I am the same Ransax who pulled a few minutes ago.”

“Will you allow this?” Hidalgus demanded of N’ca’a.

The demon gave the dragon an up and down perusal. “It is indeed the same individual. And he is a citizen of Pitanga, is he not?” Both monarchs nodded, one smiling gleefully, the other more morose. “He may play.”

“Must we let him get away with this?” Hidalgus hissed in Grissols’ ear.

The knight was afraid they would have to. The only solution would have been to find another dragon dwelling in Carambola—one as fat as Ransax.

The conclusion was never in any question. So they were still tied for this year’s championship.

A loud whistle split the air. “Overtime!” declared the Demon of Sports.

“What? There’s nothing wrong with a draw,” sighed Grissol. “It’s honorable.”

“And people do want to go home,” Ransax added.

“Anyone who tries to leave goes in the penalty box,” threatened N’ca’a. Some had already slipped away. Too late to penalize them.

“So what do we play?” came a voice from the remaining crowd.

“How ’bout Cotton Bowling?” someone answered.

“Or a foot race to our houses!”

N’ca’a looked about, trying to pinpoint the offender.

“May I suggest a Tan Fan match?” spoke up Sir Grissol. “I’ll play for Carambola and Ransax here will represent Pitanga.”

“Tan Fan?” asked the demon. “I, um, am a bit rusty on the rules.”

“No problem. We are experts.” He gave Hidalgus a sly wink. “Do our monarchs approve?”

“To be sure,” said the Carambolan.

Barbacuso looked confused but his brother-in-law jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “Agree, fool, or we’ll be here all night.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Let them play, um—”

“Tan Fan, my liege,” said Ransax. “Shall I deal?”

“By all means. Do we have two and a half decks?”

“Indeed, but I couldn’t find a chess board. Will checkers work?”

“In a pinch. A hand for me, a hand for you, a hand for the idiot.”

“And one folded in the middle of the board,” added Ransax.

“Blue Stu!” cried out Grissol.

“Ah, but two eights and a four make Green Jean,” Ransax pointed out.

“Only if the idiot plays it.”

“This is like Black Jack?” asked N’ca’a.

“Never heard of it. Three twos. You’ll have to throw them over your shoulder. No, the left one.”

And so it progressed, cards played, cards withdrawn, cards turned into tiny flying darts.

“White Knight.”

“Oh, very good. That’s what, six and a third points?”

“Added to the negative four, that puts me in the lead.”

“Ha! Orange, you lose,” crowed Ransax.

“Why?” wondered the demon.

“Because nothing rhymes with orange, of course.”

“Unless it’s a Purple Orange,” Ransax pointed out.

“Oh, quite so. Ha! Tan Fan!”

N’ca’a peered at the cards. “But didn’t you have this hand before?”

“But there were a pair of sixes in play two deals back,” explained Ransax.

“I’m playing my mild card,” stated Grissol. “Nothing we’ve done before counts.”

“Aiee! Enough. I declare this game a draw.” With that, N’ca’a disappeared.

Hidalgus was simply glad the day was over. Barbacuso was still trying to puzzle out the rules of Tan Fan.

appears in Lands Far Away 2021

Doctor Agon

Doctor Agon

Stephen Brooke ©2020

 

Far away and long ago there lived a king. His father and his father’s father had been kings before him. It was the family business.

This king, whose name was Johannes, had no son. He did have two daughters. They were large, sturdy girls, for they came of large, sturdy parents and the large, sturdy people who had come to rule their land both by the strength of arms and the strength of their own arms. The princesses were named Carolina and Catarina, and few could tell which was which, for they were twins.

Normally, finding suitable husbands for two healthy, strapping, and decidedly royal girls would have posed no problem. Indeed, suitors were plentiful and the princesses liked each better than the one before. There was even the son of a duke, all the way from France. “We should hold out for an actual duke, rather than a younger brother,” Catarina told her sister.

“Damn right,” agreed Carolina, who was inclined to salt her language just a bit. “And one at least as tall as us.”

Catarina, ever inclined to be agreeable, nodded but she wouldn’t have minded a short suitor, were he a real duke.

King Johannes’s dilemma came from the fact they were his only heirs. One would be queen and, though ruler in both name and fact, her husband would surely play some role in governing. Or wish to play a role, which might be worse.

And which was the older? One girl had certainly been born before the other—Johannes could not picture them both popping out of his Queen Mary-Ambrosia at the same time—but no one was certain which came first. The good queen, it may be noted, complained enough about their size appearing one after the other.

Suitors came and went but one was persistent. That was Ludwig the Prudent, ruler of the kingdom next door and better know to his people as ‘Old Penny-Pincher.’ It was no secret King Ludwig had long had designs on his neighbor’s kingdom. Marriage certainly required less effort and expense than war. And he could get gifts for the princesses wholesale. He knew someone.

Ludwig had a wife already but claimed that would be no impediment. Wives were easy enough to lose. Why, he’d done it a couple times already!

“Mary-Ambrosia, my dear,” said Johannes one day. “Something must be done.”

“Of course,” she murmured, her attention all on her embroidery. The queen embroidered large and bold. Some said that was the warrior nature of her ancestors. Others whispered it was her over-sized and clumsy hands.

“It would not do at all to marry Carolina to Ludwig. Or Catarina, for that matter. When the other chose a husband, there would surely be conflict over the throne.”

“Yes, dear. You could always divide the kingdom.”

Johannes was quite taken aback by that suggestion. For some reason it had not occurred to him. He mused on it for the better part of a minute. The stupefied look on his face told Mary-Ambrosia he was thinking deeply. But no— “And have one half fight the other? No, no, that’s not good at all. I need a clear heir to my throne.”

“But how do we choose one daughter over the other?”

Indeed how?

*

When one can’t decide, one seeks advice. Then, to be sure, one must decide whether to follow that advice. To make matters worse, Good King Johannes convened a council of the wisest men of his kingdom and would have many words of advice from which to choose.

Fortunately, it was a small kingdom and not noted for an abundance of wise men. The king found not one suggestion to his liking. Certainly not that he order his darling daughters to battle to the death. Likewise, he rejected the idea that he institute polygamy in his realm and marry them both to the same man. Johannes suspected the fellow with that bit of advice had his own eye on a prospective second wife.

“I must cast a wider net,” he confided to his prime minister.

“Certainly, sir. Shall I draw your bath?” It being a small kingdom, the minister did double duty as butler.

The thing, King Johannes decided, was to call upon professional advice-givers, learned doctors and philosophers from the cities and great universities.

There came the philosopher Mediocrates, self-styled gadfly of the University of Saragossa, where oft he disputed with he who held the Chair of Magic, only once being turned into a toad. Restored he was, at the Chancellor’s insistence, but some claimed there was but little difference.

While the bald and lump-like philosopher had journeyed from the sunny south, the next to arrive came from a cold land beyond cold seas. That was the renowned scientist and astrologer, Professor Hawkinstein. He had been joined in France by another philosopher, Sartracus, the famed Egg-essentialist.

Hawkinstein traveled in a comfortable palanquin; the philosopher disdained any such bourgeois conveyance and chose to walk. It was said, though, he would frequently perch on the rear of the ox cart conveying their luggage.

Last to arrive was Dr. Agon, from far Pitanga. His lateness was largely the result of his concerns about the fee he was to be paid. Agon was as famous for his way of holding onto a florin as for his scholarship.

The doctor reputedly had retired to a cave—a quite comfortable one—in the countryside. He was a stout old man who wheezed some. There were those who claimed they actually saw a little steam come out of him from time to time. This seemed most unlikely to Johannes, though he kept an eye open for it.

The four savants observed one another warily when called before the throne. The king’s herald—who also served as wine steward—stepped forward to introduce them. “From the Institute of the—is that Sorbonne, sir?” he asked, trying to make out the words on his scroll.

“Sorbet. We make the finest in Paris!”

“Ah. Very well. I present the renowned philosopher Sartracus.”

The impossibly tall, skinny man, wrapped in a shabby black robe, stepped forward, peering at the assembly through owlish glasses. “All existence is a bird!” he proclaimed. “It hatches, demands to be fed, then flies away.”

“He wishes he could fly away,” commented Dr. Agon. “His mistress nags him even worse than Mediocrates’s wife.”

An odd, high pitched laugh came from Hawkinstein. “We had to sneak out of Paris so she wouldn’t know where he was going.”

The Egg-essentialist glared at them as the herald continued. “From Spain, the learned Mediocrates. I say, isn’t Saragossa near the Ebro? There are some fine wines coming out of that region.”

Johannes thought he would like to know more about that, even if it were irrelevant, but they received naught but a scowl in answer. “I cannot teach anybody anything,” the scholar stated. “I can only make them think they learned something.”

“Yes, very well,” said the king, seeking to be agreeable. “Perhaps we’ll, um, think we learned something, eh?” He turned his eyes with some eagerness to the herald, silently beseeching him to continue.

“From the University of Esox, the famed Doctor Hawkinstein. That’s in England, Highness.”

“That it is. The only land worth living in, I must say,” came that same strange voice. The king might have taken umbrage at this rudeness had he not been distracted by the fact that Hawkinstein was not speaking. The words came from a small black bird perched on his shoulder. The doctor himself reclined in his palanquin, gazing into space and apparently thinking deep thoughts.

“And to round out our guests—” This statement remained unfinished for at that moment a diminutive woman pushed her way into the room. She spat her cigar out on the floor and mashed it underfoot.

“A sorry lot,” she said, looking over the assembled wise men.

“We invited the six greatest minds we knew,” protested the prime minister. “We were fortunate these four chose to make the journey.”

“You should’ve invited the second six. You’re more than fortunate now I’m here.”

A deep sigh came from Sartracus. “Majesty, might I present Madame de Buveur?”

“Mademoiselle,” she snapped. “And don’t you forget it.”

“I like her,” whispered Carolina.

“I don’t,” replied her sister, “but I hope she can get us husbands.”

“We welcome you, Mademoiselle,” said Johannes, wondering if she would ask the same fee as the others. “Pray continue, Otto, er, my herald.”

“I present the noted historian, Dr. Agon,” said the man.

The king peered at the fat old fellow. “Yes, yes, I believe we have some of your books in our library. Retired now, I understand?”

“Indeed so, your highness. I have traveled widely in my long life and now crave only the comfort of my country home.”

“His hole,” snickered Sartracus.

“A hole of my own, which none of you wastrels can afford,” came Agon’s reply.

Unexpectedly, a trumpet blared outside the chamber’s door. This was played by one of Johannes’s two court musicians. He employed a violist too but his instrument was not so well suited to fanfares. “His majesty, King Ludwig of Toadflax!” announced the herald, though all could see who it was striding into the room.

Ludwig—Ludwig the Third, more precisely—also came of large and sturdy people. That some of that largeness had settled around his belt must be admitted. His full blond beard hung almost to that belt, but it was not quite full enough nor long enough to hide his paunch. “What’s this foolishness, Johannes?” he bellowed. “Just marry one of your girls to me and have done with it!” His voice reduced to a hiss. “I intend to rule Liverleaf, one way or another.”

“Are you invading, Ludwig? You’d better bring an army next time,” came Johannes’s retort. It is to be admitted that his temper had increasingly frayed and now was coming apart at the seams.

“Hmmph! Maybe I will.” The visiting—or invading—king winked at the twins. “One of you had better be ready to greet me. Or both!” Throwing back his head and laughing loudly, he wheeled and left the castle of King Johannes.

“This Ludwig seems a bad egg,” remarked Sartracus. “One would not wish to be yoked to him.”

“Ah,” came Mediocrates’s rejoinder, “but he who is not contented with what he has, should seek what he would like to have.”

De Buveur’s frown was undoubtedly meant for each and every man in the room. “Why should the princesses marry at all? Let them rule!”

“Isn’t that up to the young ladies themselves?” asked Agon. “You do want to get married, don’t you?”

Two heads nodded vigorously.

“You see, all women want to marry, ma cheri.” Sartracus could not hide the petulance in his voice. “I don’t know why you keep turning me down.”

“Then you don’t know me!” she sniffed.

Mediocrates stroked his unkempt beard thoughtfully. “The unexamined wife is not worth wedding. Hmm, maybe you could permit me to make some examinations, mademoiselle?”

The Egg-essentialist glared at him. “There is only one day, Monsieur Gadfly, always starting over, but if you keep that up you may not see it come again.”

“Indeed? I’d like to see your calculations on that,” spoke Hawkinstein. Or his bird.

“It’s a figure of speech, good sir,” explained Agon. “Have you any thoughts to add to our deliberations?”

For the first time, the scientist himself seemed to actually be present, pondering the question. It was, however, the black bird that squawked a reply. “Decades of research have led me to conclude all the universe is made up of things. I call this ‘Thing Theory.’”

Johnnes nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, but what has that to do with our problem?”

“Is a problem a thing?” asked Dr. Agon.

“Hmm. I’m not sure. Let me return to my equations.” It is to be assumed he did. Hawkinstein did return to staring into nothingness.

“So, does anyone have a practical suggestion?” asked Queen Mary-Ambrosia, who was becoming peeved with her husband’s handling of this council.

“I would propose a competition,” spoke Agon. “The winner chooses one of the princesses as his wife and becomes the heir.”

“Or one of us chooses him,” added Carolina. Or was it Catarina?

“Ah, splendid,” said Johannes. “Let us adjourn and consider what sort of contest it will be overnight. Does, um, Mademoiselle de Buveur need a room? We would have to open the east wing.”

“I am afraid,” announced Sartracus, “she came to stay.”

*

“You have an idea for a competition, sir?” asked King Johannes. “And couldn’t it have waited until the morning?”

The historian shrugged his rather massive shoulders. “It could but I thought it best to get things moving. Best to explain it in privacy, too. I suggest slaying a dragon. Or, more properly, facing one.”

“But where would we ever find one?” wondered the king. There hadn’t been any in the neighborhood since his father’s time. That one was only migrating and rested a while on the hill across the valley.

“Allow me to show you. It might be best if your highness left the room,” said Agon to Mary-Ambrosia, as he began to disrobe.

“Um, perhaps you should, my dear,” felt Johannes. “And just what are you up to, my good doctor?”

“No way,” stated the queen. “If we’re paying this fellow I intend to get our money’s worth!”

“A woman after my own heart. I need to demonstrate something to you and don’t wish to ruin a perfectly good wardrobe in the process.”

That seemed sensible to the royal couple. Why that velvet doublet was barely worn at all! Mary-Ambrosia rather liked its midnight blue coloring and the neatly done embroidery. She did not so much like the sight of an increasing amount of Dr. Agon’s flesh. There was rather too much of it.

Both were shocked and amazed when the corpulent scholar at last dropped his breeches. No, no, not that—Agon had a tail. Short, but a tail none the less. Then he began to slowly change, change from a man into something larger, something scaly. A few minutes later a decidedly massive dragon crouched in the middle of their antechamber.

“So, a revised introduction is in order, isn’t it?” asked the creature. “I am Ransax. When I was young, some named me ‘Ransax the Red,’ which is not very imaginative.” Dr. Agon—Ransax—was indeed a quite red dragon. “I was partial to ‘Ransax the Rapacious,’ but was entirely willing to be addressed as Lord Ransax. Now my friends mostly call me Randy.”

“Fr—friends?” asked the Queen.

“Yes, human friends, your highness. Dragons are not inclined to make friends with each other. We’re far too covetous of each other’s hoards.”

“I hope you’re not interested in my hoard!” exclaimed Johannes. “It is exceedingly small.”

“The agreed upon fee is quite adequate, majesty.” Ransax let out a steamy chuckle. “In the old days I would have dropped from the sky and collected my fee in a very different manner.”

“So,” said Mary-Ambrosia, ready to get down to business, “you intend to fight the girls’ suitors?”

“Surely not to the death!” Johannes added.

“Consider it more a test to see how they do in a crisis. A confrontation with a dangerous dragon!” His grin revealed many long and rather sharp teeth. “Not me. I’m too old and fat for that sort of thing. Yes, even as a dragon.” He patted his ample midsection. “I can call one of my young relatives here to do the job. That’s why I wanted to get started.”

Ransax looked toward the window. “I am greatly tempted to take a flight and get some of the kinks out of my wings,” he said. “Best I change back.” This he began at once, noticeably shrinking, the wings diminishing, the tail shortening.

“This is something dragons can do, sir?” asked Johannes. “Change to human form?”

“Indeed so. If you had read those books of mine reputed to be on your library shelves, you might know this.”

King Johannes of Liverleaf decided he would go to the royal library at his first convenience.

Dr. Agon seemed to be back to his human form, aside, to be sure, from the tail. Neither the queen nor king was likely to forget its presence, no matter how well it might be covered up. He began pulling on his clothing. “Actually,” he told them, “I’m not much of a flier these days. Too heavy. Once I might have flown off and found a suitable dragon for you.” He snickered. “But I would have been a suitable dragon myself then, wouldn’t I? I can send a message and get him here by, oh, maybe tomorrow night.”

Fully dressed, he bowed to the royal couple and exited. Young Klymax would be just the dragon for this, wouldn’t he? Ransax had already told him to be ready for something.

He was a great one for schemes in any form.

*

“Things are not always what they appear to be!” Dr. Hawkinstein suddenly announced. Neither he nor his bird had spoken since yesterday’s council.

“Indeed so, sir, indeed so,” murmured Agon.

“That,” further explained the professor, “is because things are made of things.”

“But of what,” asked de Buveur, “are those things made?”

Hawkinstein at once went blank-faced, apparently returned to his calculations. They heard nothing from him and his spokes-bird the rest of the day.

The visiting savants were, of course, invited to view the coming trial of the suitors. There was little else for them to do in Castle Liverleaf but sit and argue and drink Johannes’s wine.

Sartracus was on his second bottle and de Buveur was helping him progress toward a third. The mademoiselle, despite her apparent animosity of the previous day, had also apparently spent her night with the philosopher.

“If you're lonely, seek bad company and go get drunk,” proclaimed that philosopher.

Mediocrates sat down with them. “The unexamined wine is not worth drinking. Allow me to examine that bottle more thoroughly, my colleagues.” That he had already examined a bottle or two seemed more than likely.

Sartracus filled the Spaniard’s goblet. “We are our choices in wine,” he said.

Mediocrates winked at de Buveur. “And in women?”

“I make my own choices,” she snapped.

“Ah yes, we are big on free choice. We can be the chicken or the egg!”

“But then who comes first?”

“I’d better,” stated de Buveur, draining her goblet. “I demand my freedom to be first!”

Sartracus hastened to agree. “Yes, of course. Freedom is what is done to us—is that right, ma chere? I sometimes get it confused!”

“Sounds right. Right enough. Fill me up again.”

“Ah,” said Mediocrates. “The only true wisdom is in knowing what you know!”

“But sometimes happiness,” added Dr. Agon, “comes in not knowing what you don’t know.”

*

The suitors for the hands of the royal daughters assembled in the early morning light. Five in number they were, in an open courtyard overlooking the valley.

Alas, the French nobleman had gone searching elsewhere for a shorter bride, but an Italian aristocrat had filled his place—the Conte di Cibella from Piezo, the city famed for its towers that leaned so far they all fell over. His ancestral palace had been among them and he sought a new home. The conte was a scrawny, pot-bellied fellow with more hair on his chin than his head, and a threadbare wardrobe.

When it came to titles, he was outshone by Pedro, a younger son of the king of Carambola. Prince Pedro outshone no one in other respects, being notable mostly for being unnotable. He had been too shy so far to even speak to Catarina, much less Carolina.

There was Bratislav Wurst, scion of a wealthy Bohemian merchant family. His father had ordered him to bring a bride with a title back to Prague. It would be good for business. Brat didn’t mind, not being fond of girls. One would be as bad as another. His eyes occasionally went to the pair rounding out the group of competitors.

Those were the brothers Ulmus and Sorbus, two soldiers of fortune from Riga, just returned from warring with the Cossacks. The pair were big, swaggering fellows, with bristling mustachios. Long swords swung at their sides. Why they thought themselves suitable suitors, no one was sure, but Johannes had been timid about turning them away.

“I like this land,” said Ulmus, looking out across the hills. “It goes up and down.”

Sorbus agreed. “Very flat where we come from. Better for riding horses!”

“Oh, all the horses here have longer legs on one side than the other, for going around the mountains,” Pedro informed him.

Both Letts nodded gravely at this bit of information.

“I have a brother named Kosax,” Dr. Agon confided to the king. “I don’t think that pair would want to go to war with him. It’s his boy I got to come here to help us.”

“Um, that’s good of him, sir. Does he, um, expect payment?”

“I may give him a little something from my fee. He’s just here to blow off a little steam. Literally.” Agon chuckled and maybe blew off a little steam himself. “Klymax is a youngster yet at a hundred and twelve, and up for a bit of a lark.”

“I hope it proves to be no more. I say, what is this?” There was a commotion by the gate. A moment later, Ludwig marched toward them, an attendant at his heels.

“I don’t think much of his army,” commented Dr. Agon. He did notice, though, the king’s man carried a blunderbuss.

“Did you think you could leave me out of this, Johannes?” bellowed the bellicose monarch. “Not that it matters who wins your little game. I’m marrying one of your daughters regardless!”

At that point, the philosophers straggled out into the courtyard. It was far too early and they were far too hungover to say anything at all, much less anything interesting. Professor Hawkinstein still seemed to be in another world but his black bird turned a bright eye to the proceedings.

“All here then?” began Agon, brisk and businesslike. “Our suitors over there. Everyone else out of the way.” He cocked an eye at the king of Toadflax. “Which are you, your highness?”

Ludwig hesitated a moment. “With me,” he told his attendant, and went to join the suitors. There were some murmurs of disapproval but the doctor made no comment.

“So,” he announced, “here is your test.”

The sound reminded Johannes of laundry flapping in the wind. A great number of sheets. He quickly realized it was the beating of two great bat-like wings as a huge red dragon rose above the parapets.

The Conte di Cibella promptly fainted. Bratislav crouched behind the Latvian brothers. Ludwig’s man turned and ran. Ludwig watched him go for a few seconds, turned his eyes back to the monstrous worm, and hastily followed him to safety.

Ulmus and Sorbus slowly backed away, swords drawn but seemingly in no hurry to engage Klymax. “Stop cringing back there, Brat!” growled Sorbus.

“You’re in our way,” added Ulmus. “In case we have to retreat some more.”

The dragon rose high above them and then rather gracefully dropped to the cobblestones. Its wicked head went back and forth, glaring at the remaining men. Before he knew it, young Herr Wurst was in the open and the Letts were behind him.

“Not worth it,” stated Ulmus.

“Agreed,” said Sorbus.

Then Bratislav was completely by himself. Not long, as he bounded toward safety.

That left Prince Pedro of Carambola. He looked Klymax up and down. “Well, you’re quite a magnificent fellow,” he said. “I do believe I might know a relative or two of yours.”

A deep chuckle erupted from the dragon. “It is possible, your highness.”

“Call me Pedro.” The young man looked about. “I think I must have won, huh?”

Cheers began to rise, a few at first, then most of the crowd. “Prince Pedro! Prince Pedro!” came their cries.

“Give me that,” growled a livid Ludwig, grabbing the blunderbuss his attendant held. “And quit yelling ‘Prince Pedro.’” He strode toward the young man, leveling the gunne as he approached. That was most foolish, for he completely neglected the dragon standing near by.

A few seconds later, only the royal legs protruded from Klymax’s maw. A few seconds after that, Ludwig the Third was no more than a name in the history books, and one that rarely rated more than a paragraph.

“I see,” commented Mademoiselle de Buveur, “one is not born, but becomes, a dragon-fighter.”

“Liberty!” cried out Sartracus. “Down with all kings! Down with the bourgeois order! Oh, my apologies, majesty.”

“Quite all right,” said Johannes. “We all became a bit stimulated. My daughters included.” Catarina and Carolina were making their way toward Pedro, a bit cautiously as Klymax still sat there, apparently carrying on an amiable conversation with the prince. A steamy belch or two punctuated his speech. Johannes and Mary-Ambrosia followed in their wake, with Dr. Agon ambling behind.

“He’s a nice guy,” said Carolina, “but not really my type.”

“I think he’s just fine,” rejoined Catarina. “Brave, and well-mannered too. If you aren’t interested, he’s mine!”

Queen Mary-Ambrosia turned around and gave Agon a long and somewhat suspicious look. “You had something to do with this outcome, didn’t you?”

“Well, your majesty, Carambola is right next to Pitanga and the young prince might have met a dragon or two in the past.”

“Yourself included, I dare say.”

“Indeed so.”

“Oh, I say, Johannes, is that creature turning into a man?”

Klymax was doing exactly that. A minute or so later a large, naked, and rather impressive young man stood there. Yes, he did have a tail.

“Oh, I want him, Daddy!” cried Carolina. “He’s perfect!”

“But dear, he’s not, well, human,” objected Johannes.

“He can be quite human as long as he wants to be,” said Dr. Agon. “And I might point out that there is an empty throne next door that he could now occupy.”

“Well.” The king thought on this. “What do you think of this, young, um, man? And what should we call you?”

The dragon-turned-human took a look at Carolina and grinned. “Sounds great to me. Call me Klaus. King Klaus of Toadflax! I like that.”

“Me too,” said Carolina. “When’s the wedding?”

*

As Professor Hawkinstein and his bird announced, before departing with their fee, “Things change.”

Klymax became a king, a human king, and took the throne of Toadflax, with Carolina at his side, and Prince Pedro married Catarina and one day they occupied the thrones of Liverleaf. Both couples lived happily for many years after, though not quite forever.

To be sure, King Klaus did not age as quickly as his Queen Carolina, and one day left her, flying off toward the high distant mountains. Not however, without leaving several large and sturdy children to carry on.

appears in Lands Far Away 2021