The Last Dragon

“Forgive me sire, I have failed. I could not do it.”

The king didn’t meet Sir Barnabus’ eyes as he left his throne and swaggered to the edge of the dais. Truthfully, he hadn’t expected any success, but it still irked him. The knights of Albion had a reputation to uphold. This was the fourth he’d sent on this quest and the fourth who had returned emptyhanded. Albion’s unruly nobility was becoming restless, and this was starting to become an embarrassment. 

By any measure, it had been a successful reign. He’d reduced inflation of the gold galleon and Albion’s economy was booming. He’d stocked the apothecaries with ample provisions and reduced waiting lists by half. He’d even committed to a castle building program to assuage the housing crisis but alas the realm had a short memory.

There was only one way to win the approval of the nobles and courtiers. Only one way to dispel the malicious whispers of cognitive decline. At the last Great Council, he had promised them he would present to them the head of Porphyrus – the last dragon. Now, almost a year later, nothing.

Sir Barnabus the Bold stood defeated before the court. His sword hung limply from his scabbard, partly veiled by the tattered remains of his surcoat. Behind a mane of unkempt, dirty-blond hair, the trials of the past month were etched into every line of his grey face. His weakened, tired legs nearly buckled as he knelt before the throne.

Dark, proud eyes scanned the crowd that encircled him, the pitiful smiles were far outweighed by the hungry expressions of anticipation. Both were unbearable. The courtiers who’d once fawned over the prodigious knight now flocked to witness his humiliation before the king.

“Sir Barnabus, I’d say I’m shocked but by now ‘tis to be expected! Indeed, three of your brothers have already failed me, why should you be any different?” The crowd tittered as a cruel smirk edged across the King’s face. “My father always spoke highly of his noble knights, yet it seems you’ve all gone craven. Now get out of my sight, Sir Barnabus the Broken!”

As he rose to his feet, the finished knight looked up at the young king. For a moment they locked eyes, deep brown met shallow blue. You know nothing, boy. The king’s pudgy face flickered from contempt to uncertainty as Sir Barnabus rose. Then, after lingering for a moment, he took his leave. 

A few hours later Sir Barnabus was pitched up in the Fighting Cocks, his hopes and dreams ebbing away with each quaff of ale. As he drained the last of his tankard, he noticed three large figures looming over his table. His candle had long since burned out, but he had no trouble identifying them. 

“I thought you’d find me eventually.”

“So, you couldn’t kill the beast either, old chap.” Lord Luther the Longlance stepped forward, a delighted grin and rosy cheeks just visible behind the well-sculpted black beard. “I knew you didn’t have it in you!”

“Is that why you’re all here, to say ‘I told you so?’”

“Not at all good fellow!” Ginormous George the Giantsbane leaned forward to avoid the crossbeam above. “All of us have tried, all of us have failed. I know his craziness the King wasn’t best pleased, but you can’t beat yourself up, friend.”

“You realise the king won’t stop. He’ll continue to send out his knights until the worst happens.”

“Indeed sir.” The two others stepped back as Sir William Redwood took the seat opposite. The best sword, the best lance, the best shot and generally the best bloke in Albion, Sir William had been the first to hunt the last dragon, and the first to fail. He fixed Barnabus with a long, searching stare.

“The king will not stop this mad crusade. Even now he summons the next poor soul to undertake this impossible task – this one isn’t even a knight yet."

“Perhaps this poor soul may succeed, Sir William. Perhaps he may not share our weakness.”

“Weakness, you’d call it that?” Sir William leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. “Young men are all the same. No horse is too intractable, no journey is too wearisome, no monster is too fearsome. They’ll do anything for the promise of fame and fortune. Let’s hope this young chap is as honourable as we are…”

The next day, an eager young squire set off from the castle. Harry Harefoot was tallest and the strongest of his cohort, yet he was still working towards his knighthood. The king had promised it to him if he slayed the last dragon. ‘We need some new blood,’ he’d whispered. Harry would be the youngest knight in Albion’s history. He just had to do one thing.

The knights who’d gone before had used the Foxwood path, fending off bandits and tribesmen, swarms of treacherous pixies and the great beasts of the forest. Instead, Harry bought passage with an enterprising fisherman. The voyage was hell. Sea and sky warred with each other, with the battered old fishing boat caught in the crossfire. Still, despite bunking with a mountain of cold dead fish, Harry made the journey in three times faster than the knights had.

When he arrived at The Umberlands, he set up camp on the stony shore. He dreamt that he was strolling through Lonbury with the head of Porphyrus, presenting it to the king in front of an enormous crowd. Maid Margery was in the front row. Fantasies of fame and fortune were disrupted when he was awoken by harsh voices outside his tent.

Sword in hand, he crept out to find a cluster of men circling his small camp. Their clothes were shabby and mismatched, but they all carried at least one weapon. Harry noted six broadswords, five axes and five shields. Despite his youthful naivety, Harry suspected they weren’t well-intentioned. Still, it was worth a try...

“Good morning gentlemen, I’m Harry Harefoot, a squire from the Royal Castle. Care to join me for some breakfast?”

“A tempting offer little lordling.” A young man in a green tunic stepped forward, “but you clearly don’t recognise me. I’m Robert Blackhood, I steal from the rich and keep it all for myself.”

“Don’t panic, we’ll let you live. You’ll even keep your clothes if you’re lucky.” A larger man with a horned helmet and a monstrous beard began walking towards Harry. “Now give us your sword.” Too easy.

“Alright”

In one swift motion, Harry unsheathed his sword, took a sweeping step forward and slashed the tip of his sword across the large man’s throat – a lethal strike. The bandits began to circle him as Harry turned around. Every step was inch perfect, keeping him just out of range whilst daring them to strike. At sea he’d felt so powerless and disconnected but this was his element. Blood rushed and adrenaline surged; he was made for this.

In the courtyard during training, the other squires would often go for him, hoping to distinguish themselves. The master of arms gave them a galleon for each blow they landed though his purse was rarely lightened. This lot didn’t even come close. Cut, thrust, cut, parry. Before long, nine bandits were dead. Their bodies formed a bloody circle around the spotless squire.

“Have mercy little lordling!” The last three shrunk away from him as he advanced.

“Of course, gentleman. I am to be a knight and a knight does not kill unnecessarily.” Harry proclaimed proudly.

They looked at their fallen brothers doubtfully but sure enough they muttered their thanks and started to walk up the beach.

“Actually stop! Do you guys know the way to the Fountain of Flame?”

Four days later, Harry was starting to feel lost. The forest was thick and gloomy. The trees rose like tombstones, blotting out the sun, and the path had long since disappeared. The bandits had directed him to the Crossroad Inn where he received further directions, but he hadn’t seen another human soul since then. There had been others, however.

He’d wasted the last of his arrows fending off harpies to win a horse from the innkeeper. His first night, he’d awoken to find dark roots curling around his legs. A few precise strokes of his sword put an end to the threat, but he struggled to sleep after that. On the third day, a warlock with green lips and translucent skin offered to lead him to the Fountain of Flame in exchange for a lock of his hair willingly given. Harry was beginning to wish he’d agreed.

On the fifth day, he saw it between the trees. The Fountain of Flame was a jagged black mountain that dominated the skyline. According to legend, it used to launch ropes of liquid flame into the sky, from which spawned the first dragons. Even now it retained an unnatural aura, a blot on the green, unspoiled landscape that Harry galloped towards with renewed bravado.

At the foot of the mountain, Harry stumbled across a lone building. It was a stone cottage with a thatched roof which cut a rather comical image before the backdrop of the looming mountain. He had just knocked twice when a deafening, otherworldly sound resonated from behind the cottage. Somewhere between a howl and a roar, it was harsh and cutting yet soft and mellifluous and it rang through Harry’s soul. When the wizened old man opened the door, Harry struggled for words.

“Hello sir,” Harry stammered. “I… I think you have a dragon in your garden.”

A few moments later, Harry was sat in a chintzy old armchair sipping tea from a delicate white cup. Sitting opposite was an enigma. He was layered in iridescent blue fabrics which contrasted sharply with the pointy red hat balancing on his head. His face was obscured by the wispy white beard that spanned the length of his tiny frame, but his eyes shone through, twinkling with ancient mischief.

“I know why you’re here.” The old man set down his cup. “They all find my cottage eventually.”

“I have orders from his majesty the king to slay the last dragon.” Harry puffed out his chest a little as he said it. Still, he was increasingly nervous. They all find my cottage, he’d said. All the knights before him had come here yet none had succeeded.

“Don’t speak to me of kings, boy! I was there when the first King Arthur raised Albion from the ground.” When the old man spoke, the room seemed to darken, and Harry could swear the cups were trembling in their saucers. “But I shan’t stand in your way.” The old man stood up and smiled wanly. “Finish your tea, then try to slay my dragon.”

Harry followed the old man uncertainly through the house – this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. He’d imagined a dramatic climb to the top of the mountain to find the dragon’s lair, not a tea party with this old man. They went through the kitchen and into a large grotto, surrounded by glowing lanterns and sparkling flowers. Harry felt the heat radiating from the creature before he saw it. In the corner, curled up beside a rose bush, was the last dragon.

It was beautiful. The scales glistened with gold yet, in the light, they were a kaleidoscope of warm colours bursting forth like a burning sunset. Delicate wings shining like stain-glass windows lay besides the onyx talons which rested on the grass with an elegant restraint. Harry saw the eyes turn on him, two pools of molten gold alive with the wisdom of centuries past. He had to kill this ancient creature. 

Harry’s hand curled around his sword when he heard a rustling. From the other side of the grotto, three tiny creatures scrambled towards the large dragon in the corner. The third one seemed to cough and send a small cloud of smoke into the air. As each of the tiny creatures curled up beneath their mother’s enormous golden wing, Harry realised two things. Firstly, Porphyrus was not the last dragon. Secondly, there was no way he could slay these beautiful creatures.

Three weeks later, the exhausted squire stood outside the courtroom, trembling with anxiety. As he was marched towards the king, who had no doubt been apprised of his failure, he glanced to his left to see four knights leaning against the wall behind the gaggle of courtiers. Sir Barnabus, Lord Longlance, Great George Giantsbane and Sir William Redwood were smiling at him. He gave them a nod. Alas, they shared a sacred bond. All had been asked to do something terrible. All had failed. With grim resignation, Harry Harefoot knelt before the king.

“Forgive me sire, I have failed. I could not do it.”