A Sleeping Dragon

Picture a clearing. Picture a small moment of sunlight in the forest, light slanting down through the trees. Picutre a swamp, surrounded by bushes, where crickets chirp and flies buzz. It smells of swamp. The flies don’t seem to mind.

On a log, a small frog sat and burped a happy tune. It was a simple frog. As long as it had a log to sit on, a tune to burp, and a ready supply of flies, it was happy. It also had no sense of smell to speak of. This may have contributed to its happiness.

As the frog burped, and the flies buzzed, a new note entered the symphony. It was long and drawn out and it sounded a little like oooooohhhhhhhhhshiiiiiiiiiiii…

Then, the bushes parted and an iron clad figure entered the clearing moving at an extraordinary speed considering the weight of its armour.

Remarkably, and against all laws of narrative, it didn’t fall into the swamp. Instead, it accelerated through the clearing, legs a blur of speed, and disappeared through the bushes on the other side.

The frog paused to contemplate this development but, before it could respond with a deep and philosophical ribbit, another figure entered the clearing. This one was not wearing armour. It had no need. It was huge and scaly, and parted the trees like an alligator pushing aside a toothpick. It thundered through the clearing, disproving thousands of years of theories about dragons being slow, lumbering beasts, and would have left behind only an air of menace if, tied to his tail, hadn’t been a third figure, dressed in a jerkin and hose, screaming like an air raid siren, and being pulled along on roller-skates.

When the third figure had disappeared, silence descended once more, or at least the silence of the swamp which largely consisted of chirping, burping and buzzing.

The frog watched the bush into which the trio had departed and thought to himself, ‘well there’s something you don’t see every day’ which, for the frog, was indisputably true. Then it settled down on its log, gave a long and satisfied burp in D Minor and thought no more about it.

On the other side of the clearing, Codswallop was still tied to a dragon’s tail. At the moment, he was just about coping with the fact that he was being pulled along at breakneck speed by a beast that looked like it took several decades just to blink. He was finding it very hard to stay upright, as various branches, leaves and small woodland creatures were pushed back by the dragons passage and then catapulted back into his face, but he was coping. The speed of the beast didn’t bother him. He was much more worried about what he was going to do when it decided to stop.

He attempted calling out.

“Bartleby”

“Shiiiiiiiii….” came the reply which Codswallop took as a good sign.

“Have you definitely got it’s attention?”

The reply that came back was unintelligible, but Codswallop got the general gist.

“Alright,” he said, ignoring his companion. “I’m going to attempt the Eisel seeds. Keep him running in a straight line.”

Reaching into his pocket, Codswallop cautiously drew out a leather package. It was tightly bound with string and, as Codswallop loosened the knots, a lustrous sheen was visible within. It was noticeable that Codswallop kept the bag downwind of him. Wobbling precariously as he jolted over twigs and leaves, Codswallop took careful aim, then lobbed the package high above the dragons head.

It exploded into a glittering cloud of blue and purple dust that descended over the dragon’s snout.

The result was as spectacular as it was sudden. The dragon inhaled two large nostrils-full of swirling turquoise smoke, sneezed dramatically and let out a strangled roar. Then, as though hitting the side of a mountain, it came to a sharp halt under a redwood tree, roared once more, and collapsed to the ground.

If Codswallop was pleased in any way by the effectiveness of his plan, he didn’t show it. In some, this might have been seen as modesty. On this occasion, it was more to do with the fact the he was now speeding head first, out of control, and towards a dragon’s rump. As so often when he went adventuring with Bartleby, Codswallop closed his eyes, tucked in his extremities and prayed that anything he broke could be easily repaired.

When he came to, it was to find Bartleby standing over him, armour mostly removed, blond hair mussed and unruly, and an accusing look in his eye.

“I could have died,” he said crossly.

Codswallop sat up gingerly, wincing with each new bruise he discovered.

“I’m sorry if you feel you got the raw end of the deal. Perhaps I can be in the armour and you can be on the roller-skates next time.”

Bartleby threw his hands up in the air. “You think it was safer in the armour? It’s a dragon. It breathes fire. If I hadn’t managed to keep it distracted with my, quite masterful, evasion strategy, it would probably have just regarded me as food that came in its own oven.”

“The armour was your idea,” pointed out Codswallop. “You said that no-one would hire a dragon hunter that wasn’t wearing armour. You said people want to hire someone who goes ting in the light.”

“If I hadn’t run so fast,” wailed Bartleby, “I would have been going ting in the bloody dragon.”

Codswallop got to his feet. His limbs, he was pleased to note, still functioned. The roller-skates, on the other hand, had been torn from his feet and been crushed by the dragon’s huge tail. This, he was also pleased to note.

“The point,” he said patiently, “was to get the dragon’s attention while I crept up on him. Dragon’s like shiny things. If you’d just stood still, like you were supposed to, I could have knocked the dragon out back at the cave.”

Bartleby shivered and, for a moment, his habitual look of arrogance was replaced by one of sheer terror.

“I could see right up his nostrils,” he whispered quietly. “I could smell the brimstone.”

Codswallop didn’t notice. He was too busy examining the dragon.

“He’s a big old brute isn’t he. How do you think we’re going to get him back to the village?”

“Have you still got those roller-skates?” asked Bartleby. Codswallop sighed and went back to examining the dragon.

“Mind you,” he said eventually. “You’ve got the right idea there. I mean, if we had a big enough roller skate.”

Bartleby considered this for a moment. “Perhaps we could…” he began brightly.

“By which I mean,” continued Codswallop smoothly before Bartleby could suggest seeking out a giant 70’s rollerdisco, “that if we cut down some trees, we could build a makeshift wagon.”

“Oh,” said Bartleby. “And by we you mean…?”

“You’re the one blessed with good upper body strength,” pointed out Codswallop. “Since there’s no princesses to impress out here, we might as well put it to some other use.”

“Right,” said Bartleby. “And you’ll be…?”

“Well,” said Codswallop. “I’ve got the really hard problem to deal with.”

Bartleby considered the thick tree trunks, the dense foliage surrounding them, and the fact that he didn’t really have an axe. “And that would be?”

“I’m going to have to work out how we’re going to get this dragon on the wagon once we’ve built it.”

When Bartleby returned to the clearing, Codswallop had been busy. The clearing was filled with a complex network of trees, pulleys and rope. Several of the ropes were around the dragon. One more led to a winch, that Codswallop had somehow constructed from saplings and tree bark. Another held tight to a large and whip like tree trunk which, right now, was bent almost to the ground and held in place by a wooden peg. Codswallop himself was checking the ropes fastened around the dragon. As Bartleby entered the clearing, Codswallop turned to look at him.

“Did you get enough wood for a wagon?”

Bartleby beamed. “In a manner of speakng.”

Codswallop’s face fell. “Oh God,” he said. “It’s going to be like Castlesmere all over again, isn’t it?”

“Now, that’s not fair,” said Bartleby. “How was I to know that fireworks don’t make suitable replacements for firelighters.”

“Well…”

“I mean, they’ve got virtually the same name,” continued Bartleby. “It’s like fishsticks and fishfingers. Or toffee apples and candy apples. Or dynamo or dynamite.”

“Look,” said Codswallop, “we haven’t got much time before the dragon wakes up. Just show me what you’ve got and we’ll have to make do.”

“Ok,” said Bartleby. “But you’d better not complain.”

He darted out of the clearing. When he returned he was pulling a perfectly serviceable, fully constructed, wagon. Codswallop’s mouth fell to the floor.

“That’s… amazing,” he said eventually. “I take everything back. You’re a genius.”

“Why, thankyou,” said Bartleby, pushing the wagon into the clearing. “I always knew you’d come round to my way of thinking eventually.”

“Your way of thinking?” asked Codswallop, as he began to wind the winch. Inch by painstaking inch, the dragon began to raise in the air, supported by the network of pulleys.

“That I’m a genius,” said Bartleby. He pushed the wagon towards the center of Codswallop’s network of ropes, waiting for the dragon to raise high enough that he could slip it under.

“I can’t believe how well that wagon moves,” noted Codswallop. “I figured you’d come back with something that barely held together. And smaller too. How long did it take you to build it? That thing’s almost troll sized.”

“Oh, I didn’t build it,” said Bartleby.

Codswallop paused in his winching.

“What?”

“Well, you’re right,” said Bartleby. “There was no way I was going to be able to build something this good on my own. So I did what I always do in these situations. Wandered around until I found one that somebody else had built.”

Codswallop looked at the stolen wagon with disbelief. Then he looked at the wagon tracks clearly marking the path along which Bartleby had pushed it.

“Where,” said Codswallop, knowing he was going the regret asking the question, “did you find it?”

“Over by the troll bridge,” said Bartleby.

In the distance, an unearthly beast began to howl. It sounded distinctly trollish.

“Oh crap,” said Codswallop.

As Bartleby’s eyes widened in belated realisation, Codswallop began to winch like mad. Unfortunately, the ingenuity of his gearing was against him. For every frantic turn of the wheel, the dragon lifted another inch. There was still three feet to go.

Meanwhile, the howling continued, getting closer and closer. It was joined by the swish, swish, crunch of a large, angry individual moving through the forest.

“I’ve heard trolls can be friendly if you get to know them,” said Bartleby desperately. “Perhaps he’ll be more frightened of us than we are of him.”

The beast howled again. It didn’t sound particularly terrified. Codswallop grunted and tried to turn faster. There was a limit to how fast he could turn, however.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he yelled to Bartleby. “Do something.”

Bartleby looked around. There had to be some way to help Codswallop wind the rope faster. Then he saw it. The rope was caught around a tree branch. It wound tightly and pulled at the stout branch, shaving off bark at every turn. Quick as a flash, Bartleby jumped onto the wagon and began to hack at the tree branch with a handy stick. In the distance, the howl turned to a roar.

Codswallop looked up.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Helping,” said Bartleby brightly. He carried on whacking at the tree branch as Codswallop abandoned his winching and began to run towards the wagon.

“No,” he cried. “That the main tension arm. If you break that it’ll…”

He didn’t have time to finish. With a final might thwack, Bartleby cracked the branch straight down the middle.

Immediately, several things happened.

Firstly, the rope, relieved of its restraining tension, began rocket through the trees, arcing in loops and somersaults as it undid all of the work Codswallop had spent so much time putting into it.

Secondly, the dragon, previously rising at a fraction of a stately pace, was shot into the air as though it had the weight of a feather.

Thirdly, Codswallop realised he was standing on the coiled end of the rope.

As Codswallop was yanked into the air, he was able to observe many things. He was able to observe Bartleby, standing on the cart and looking thoroughly delighted with himself. He was able to observe the dragon, previously sailing upwards at a rate of knots, reverse it’s direction and come hurtling back down towards him. And he was able to see, at the side of the clearing, an enraged troll thrust its way through the trees, brandish its club for a few seconds and then, taking in the full panorama, lower its club in bewilderment as it watched the bizarre sequence of events taking in place in front of it.

Then, Codswallop became afflicted by a sudden case of descending dragon and he no longer had time for casual observation.

The dragon hit the wagon at considerable speed. Trolls are not, as a rule, very bright. They are, however, amazingly good at constructing things, and a troll wagon is built to withstand, amongst other things, the full weight of a troll. As a result, the sudden downpour of dragon did nothing to disturb the wagon’s overall integrity.

It did, however, disturb the makeshift brake which Bartleby had put in place, Bartleby having neither the construction skills or, indeed, the intelligence of a troll.

The wagon began to roll.

If Bartleby lacked intelligence, however, he did possess sufficient wit to dive out of the way in situations when a dragon fell on him. Not enough wit to dive off the cart, but out of the way in a general sort of sense. As a result, he opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back, in a moving wagon, with a dragon balanced delicately above him, supported only by the edges of the cart and the troll sized seats. He had never smelt a dragon at close quarters before. Bartleby wisedly decided not to consider which part of the dragon he was currently positioned under.

Slowly, Bartleby shuffled forward, attempting to extricate himself. It seemed to take a long time to reach daylight. Scales scratched his skin and caught at his clothes. Underneath him, the wagon rattled and bumped. It felt like it was speeding up. Bartleby wondered what would cause him more harm, diving off of a speeding cart, or staying on a cart with an angry dragon.

When Bartleby emerged, scraped and covered in splinters, he realised he had forgotten one additional danger. Codswallop was staring down at him, lashed firmly to the dragon and giving him a very scathing look.

Bartleby looked at Codswallop. Codswallop looked at Bartleby. Then they both glanced towards the direction of travel of the speeding cart.

“Aarrggghhhhh,” they both said together.

Alestor Trelamaine was in his reading chambers when he heard a loud crash, followed by commotion in the street. He laid down the document he was working on, a dull and lengthy treatise on sanitation, took off his reading glasses, and waited. Whatever trouble was brewing it would make its way to him eventually. Trouble always ended up coming to him. Why, only recently he had been forced to deal with a couple of drifters who had called themselves monster hunters, and spent an afternoon banging a gong in the town square and generally disturbing the peace under the guise of trying to drum up business.

Alestor permitted himself a wry smile. He had dealt with them, he felt, fairly. After all, they had wanted a job, had they not? With all their bravado, they had never questioned whether the legends of a dragon up in the mountains held any credence. He had made it quite clear they were not to come back empty handed, which meant that they would either starve themselves to death trying to find a non-existent crypto-beast or, more likely, realise their foolishness and slink off, too embarrassed to return. And if, by some miracle, they actually managed to find the beast… well, either way he was rid of them.

He was just wondering what inventive way he could use to dispose himself of the new disturbance when the door to his chambers crashed open and some familiar faces waltzed in.

“Al,” cried Bartleby, as though delighted to see an old friend.

“Ah,” said Alestor, wincing at the familiarity. “How delightful to see you again.”

The pair did not look fit to be received in a mayor’s chambers. Bartleby, having removed his armour, was now dressed in long johns and a sweat stained tunic. Codswallop was dressed less disarmingly, but had a wild eyed stare, as though he had seen something that could never be unseen. Both were covered in scratches, straw, and bits of wood and wreckage.

“Now,” said Alestor, “I do believe we agreed that you not return until you had defeated the dragon and brought back some token to prove it.”

“Yup,” nodded Bartleby enthusiastically. “Now about that reward.”

Alestor snorted.

“Surely,” he said, “you don’t expect me to believe that you tracked down and defeated a dragon. I did warn you that I wouldn’t be fooled by the usual tricks.”

“You mean walking into the forest, wondering around a bit and then coming back with soot smeared all over our armour?” said Bartleby. “Yup, I know. That’s why we brought back proof.”

“Let me guess,” said Alestor sarcastically. “Some scales that could easily have come from a salamander; a claw that could have come from a bear; a dragon tooth that looks suspiciously like a large rock?”

“Oh no,” grinned Bartleby. “Much better than that. Come and see.”

In the marketplace, quite a large crowd had gathered. There wasn’t a lot of excitement to be seen in Okehampton and, as they pushed their way through, Alestor began to realize this was excitement indeed. Possibly more excitement than he’d bargained for.

“You brought it here?” he hissed.

Bartleby nodded in delight. Codswallop just stared at the dragon, or more specifically at the frayed ropes that had recently bound him to the dragon’s snout.

“But…” began Alestor. “I mean, there isn’t even… How?”

“One dragon,” said Bartleby. “Just like we promised. And you must admit, we definitely brought you proof.”

Alestor examined the dragon. He had dealt with phony monster hunters before, and they were a weak bunch, with very little imagination. If this was a fake, then it was a very good one. He turned to the duo reluctantly.

“I fear I may have underestimated you.” He looked thoughtful. Okehampton was not a rich town. “I supposed you’ll be wanting your reward?”

“Yes, please,” said Bartleby.

“Okay. A deal’s a deal.” Alestor sighed. “I believe we agreed to stay traditional.”

“Yup,” said Bartleby. “You can’t go wrong with tradition.”

“And, are you aware of the traditional reward for slaying a dragon?”

Bartleby paused.

“Um,” he said. “I was assuming a barrow load of cash, and a slap up meal.”

“Ah,” said Alestor. “I’m afraid not. It does pay to study tradition you know.”

“Oh,” said Bartleby. “So what is the reward.”

“My daughters hand in marriage,” said Alestor. Bartleby’s face fell. “And half the wealth of the kingdom.” Bartleby perked up.

“Unfortunately,” Alestor continued, “I am unmarried, and we are not a monarchy.”

Codswallop looked up sharply.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Oh dear,” said Alestor. “I do apologise. I had thought you would have done your homework before you agreed to the terms and conditions. No kingdom, therefore no wealth. It would appear you have killed a dragon for nothing. Well, half of nothing anyway.”

“Now look here…” began Codswallop.

“Killed?” said Bartleby at the same time.

Alestor chose to focus on Codswallop. “Now, now,” he said calmly. “A deal is a deal, as I say. And this was, indeed, the deal. We even signed a contract.”

“Why you double crossing…”

“Did you say killed,” carried on Bartleby. “It’s just that…”

Alestor smiled and, glanced over to the edge of the market where the town’s underpaid but overmuscled city guard were beginning to arrive.

“Now, I’m sure you don’t want to make a fuss,” continued Alestor smoothly. “Even a pair of mighty dragon killers such as yourselves have to bow down to the law.”

“But,” cried Bartleby, “we didn’t kill the dragon.”

Alestor stopped. He looked over to the large and scaly form currently occupying the market square.

As if on cue, the beast let out a deep and reverberating snore.

The crowd pulled back, but not too far. It seemed like there was to be a spectacle, and the threat of imminent fiery death was nothing when it came to the potential of a good show. Besides, as long as there was someone plumper and tastier than them in front, each villager assumed they’d probably be alright. Something to tell the kids about.

Up in front of all of them, Alestor began to wish he had attended fewer civil banquets.

“How…?” he said simply.

“We have a formula of our own concoction,” admitted Codswallop. “It can put anything to sleep for several hours. Even a dragon.”

“I see,” said Alestor. He wasn’t sure, but was that smoke curling from the monster’s nostrils. He looked around for a means of escape, but the crowd was as good as a wall. “And how long ago did you use this formula?”

“Oh, several hours ago,” said Codswallop. Now his grin was wider than that of any dragon.

“Perhaps,” he said, as the mayor began to sweat, “we can renegotiate.”

Behind him, the dragon began burping happily in its sleep.