Paulie the...

Garret the Grand was as his name implied; grand, majestic and totally the quintessential hero type. Of course he didn’t earn the title until the dragon had been slain a year and a half ago but nevertheless he had the moniker now.

Then; he’d only been a local hero, a small-time roving type who always intervened with grandiose speeches of right versus wrong. His blond locks would wave in the wind and in the re-telling of his tale his non-existent cape would be flowing majestically. Insert the wave crashing behind him on the shore and you have a pretty good idea of the guy.

I was always beside him. You know that painting of the hero with his sword pointed downwards into the neck of the beast? I’m that little blob in the background. The one that you assume is a pack-mule or a rock or worse still, a shadow.

A shadow is probably the closest to the truth of what I am to Garret the Grand. No-one remembers that I was ever even there, sticking my neck out just the same as he. But I’m not the hero. I don't have the rippling pecs, the tightly packed muscle, or even the bounteous personality that heroes must have as prerequisites to the job. And don’t get your hopes up; this isn’t a story where at the end you find out that I’m actually the hero and he’s gotten the credit. He is a hero and I love him dearly. He did the work and in the end he delivered the final blow to the dragon. My chief point in telling this tale is that so often us little guys, us support roles get totally overlooked in the telling of an epic.

For example when we went off to slay the beast it was a three month trek and tracking excursion as the dragon made its way westward, leaving a trail of destruction. Garret is rather hopeless with tracking and he can’t make a meal to save his own life. Were it not for my forethought, he would not have packed rations or a pan to cook in.

But instead of delivering the tale to you in the past tense, in the aftermath and in the piece-meal way that memory delivers things, let me take you back there. Back to the day we began.

* * * *

The day was cold, very cold. It was deep winter when the beast attacked Karamon Village. The fire set houses ablaze and sheep bleated pathetically as the black jaws of the dragon scooped them up. Karamon Village was not saved. No hero stepped forward for no hero was near. People ran terrified. Some were eaten. Some were torched. Some were killed by the collapsing infrastructure around them.

Two days later the stragglers appeared in Mudlick half frozen with frostbite affecting their uncovered limbs. They warned us of the black dragon and cried hot tears as we sent our finest out to search their desecrated homes.

Mudlick is a fair size larger then Karamon and we don’t invest the same energy into sheep. These factors are probably why the beast flew over us but did not interfere. Either that or he was simply satisfied with the damage wrought to our neighbours in the east.

The mayor of the town called up a meeting and I attended in the back of the room picking some dust off the wool cloak I wore round my shoulders.

“We must do something about the beast.” He cried, looking for volunteers who, in my opinion, could only be of the variety of those who already wanted to die. Luckily, my old friend Garret was out for the evening. He’d caught a cold diving into the river for what he thought was a drowning kitten. It had turned out to be a leaf on a stick. I told him it had been but he gave me a line about never doubting his gut and dove head first into the icy drink. I smiled inwardly as the town council began to dither. No-one was up for facing the dragon.

“It’s left us alone so let us return the favour.” whined the treasurer; a fat balding man who wouldn’t have been picked for such a mission even if he’d been the only option.

“You are all insane.” the doors crashed open and the booming deep voice of my friend rang out if a bit nasally and weakened. I groaned. How had he found out about this? “I will fight the dragon!” he proclaimed and struck the pose. It might have been affecting if he wasn’t bundled up inside a large knit blanket and sneezing intermittently.

I stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I will go too old friend.”

He smiled down at me and laid his bear sized hand over my thin shoulder. “I should have it no other...AHChooo...way.” he sniffled.

Later this scene would be painted majestically by the bards. A strong hero vibe oozing from every angle. I would play the role of a worried citizen being reassured, not part of the team.

Two days later saw Garret up and prepping his trip. The dragon had reportedly hit Farport which was two settlements over from us. I told him to sit on his hands until I returned to him and off I went. Garret is from a fishing operation. He doesn't see the value in money and he lives rather simply. He has what he needs and no more. I appreciate his morals and values but I’m a realist. This trip required funds.

What the good people of Mudlick don’t know about me, and that I am about to reveal, is that I come from the major city of Parth. Not only am I from Parth, I am from a prominent family in Parth. However, similar to Garret I never wished to live surrounded by the trappings of wealth so I left at a young age. Very rarely have I needed to return there or request money of my estate. But now to provide Garret and myself the very best chances of surviving simply the journey, I made my way there. It is a twelve day round trip so you can guess how antsy my hero was upon my return. Two other villages had been hit with various levels of damage. The dragon was winding his way towards the Jagged Cliffs and by my assumption his base, his home, his lair.

“Where have you been?” Garret pulled me inside his home as I appeared with a cart loaded with bags.

“Provisions.” I gestured and he laughed that deep booming laugh of heroes.

“Our wits and a good cloak would have sufficed. You have always required more comforts, Paulie then the finest ladies.” he clapped my thin shoulder as was his want and strode off inside to fetch his sword. I prickled at the idea that a cast iron pan was considered too much in his eyes but brushed it off. He would thank me later for it.

We set off the next morning, two large packs strapped to our backs. His looked almost to small on his gladiator back. His sword clanking at his hip. I am hopeless with edged weapons, more likely to damage myself then the enemy, so I carry a quarterstaff. I am decent with it but I had no illusions that I could kill a dragon with a glorified stick.

The trip itself was boring and not worth discussing here. If you wish to know in agonizing detail what the landscape was like and how often we ate and what we ate I suggest you find The Ballad of Garret the Great; for when it comes to those details there are very few ways to embellish them or exaggerate them. What I will say here is that it was bracing and cold. And when not outside settlements it was exceptionally depressing for we traveled in the wake of the monster. Bleary eyed people, half destroyed homes, crying children, and judgmental eyes were our reward for the effort of chasing it down. Most people seemed to say silently ‘where were you when it was here? Where were you when it ate my father?’

To these people Garret would make sweeping gestures and bend on one knee and affect a teary eyed ode. I would stand silently behind him while he placated and eased the worry. His grandiose gestures, shiny brassy colored breastplate, rippling muscles and blue eyed stare seemed to put the confidence of our victory back into the people. We would leave each place on the wings of cheers.

Out in the plains, away from the people Garret would lose his luster very quickly. He chaffed that he had not saved them, that he was too late. He would feel the weight of his undertaking in these cold moments and I would have need to bring out my lute and play him some fish-monger songs. Nothing brings him back quite like a sea shanty. He would sing and laugh and clap me on the shoulder and send me sprawling half the time due to a lack of control in his swing.

I would smile and tell him there was no-one better suited to taking down the devil. Though inwardly I firmly believed we were walking to our deaths. It turns out that I was the very fool that volunteered for the mission and that had been a bit of a shock. But I could not leave Garret alone. If he had any chance of winning against the dragon, he would require my help to get there and back, and this I knew acutely.

It was proven to me the very day we met. He had washed up on shore out of the river at my feet, a bright eyed big boy even in his youth, unconscious and holding a stick. I restored him to life, my thin lips quivering and my mind racing through the steps of how to ensure proper retrieval of a drowned soul. When he spluttered and coughed his way back to the land of the living, I inquired about the stick. This was my first but, as you already know, not last encounter with Garret diving into the river to save drowning sticks. I laughed and he laughed and from then on I was constantly picking him up after his heroic efforts.

The base of the Jagged Cliffs is all black loosely packed earth. No vegetation except for very brown twig bushes seem to sprout here. The cliffs rise to the sky in angular angry forms and we had not laid eyes on the black beast up to this point. Where was his hole? Where in this great marching line of risen earth could he be hiding? Garret does not worry himself with these details. He simply begins to climb when he comes to a wall and the mountainous range was little different in his eyes. So up I followed, huffing my pack and grateful for my staff.

I know what you are thinking, we find the beast, a thunder storm with epic lighting occurs and the battle of the century begins. Story over, heroic deed done. And while its true that we were into the rainy season by the time we reached the homestead of the dragon, it was not rainy. It was not even nighttime. It was a crisp spring day and the higher we climbed the more it became a cold wintry afternoon. No rain or cloud ever provided an epic weather backdrop into the mix. Actually when we did find the lair, the black dragon was asleep. Apparently black dragons do a sort of hibernation in the early spring and he had no idea we’d arrived with ill intent.

He did awake however because Garret is a fan of honorable dueling and he threw a massive rock at the beasts maw and screamed at him to ‘awaken and face the music.’ He gladly acquiesced by swiping his black thick tail toward us. I managed to flatten myself against the wall of the cave but Garret went flying outside and probably a good several hundred meters down the cliff-face.

Alone with the beast I was fairly quaking in my boots. I did not even wear bronzed armor as did my counterpart. Just my grey traveling cloak and my dirt encrusted woolens and a quarterstaff stood between my fleshy body and his cart sized talons. His yellow eye gazed at me blinking once or twice. He seemed to be asking me if Id rather throw myself down the mountain or be eaten. As I did not move he attempted to peel me off the wall with his talons. My quarterstaff, a couple inches of cured wood was all that stood between me and his claw as he raked me along the wall. I ran around, dodging and hiding. He was a big body in a small cave. If I could survive until Garret made his way back with the actual weapon I could perhaps stave off the inevitable.

I was surprised when his mouth opened and the fire spewed forth. It scorched the walls, it burned itself out of the gaping hole toward the free air outside. I cut my hand flying from the hole and ducking just in time. I could smell burnt hair and my legs had turned to water beneath me. But I could hear the beast following me outside.

“That was close.”

I glanced sideways to see Garret patting a curly lock of his blonde hair and tightening his bracer. No fear, just a job to do. I felt relief at seeing him and also terror. A new terror that this could be the last line his deep voice ever delivered in my presence. This terror did something interesting to my legs. It hardened them and together we stood as if we’d synchronized it.

“Lets hurry this along. I’m cold.” I grinned and saw him smirk as he pulled his sword. Its funny what pure terror and the acceptance of death will do to ones humor.

“Get his attention.” Garret commanded and I obeyed running off in circles and smacking at him with my staff to keep him focused. Like a fly that buzzes round and distracts someone working outside I attempted to make myself equally annoying. I scrambled up and down that cliff, cutting my skin on harsh rocks and bleeding profusely. The dragon sent me flying once or twice but each time I managed to scurry out of the way of the finishing blow.

While I did this, Garret slashed at key places along the dragon’s body trying to work his way to vital spots. The problem with this is of course that dragons have incredibly hard bodies and the scales in most cases need to be removed before you can access the fleshy body underneath.

The tide was turning and we were beginning to lose. I could feel broken ribs shifting as I continued to run around and I could see blood pouring from Garret in critical places. His breastplate was crumpled in awkward ways. This is when you think I’ll do something heroic to save the day but I didn’t. I was out of hope and options and my reflexes were slowing. What happened next I don’t think I can translate properly onto paper. Garret was eaten.

He wasn’t chopped in half as he sailed through the sky or chomped out of the blue so that he’s there one moment and gone the next. It was a moment where if a storm would have come for dramatic effect it would have been then. He simply stopped fighting and walked up to the dragon arms down to his side, blood pouring out of him, sweat making him appear greasy. It only took a moment but it seemed to be in slow motion. The dragon leaned forward and simply seemed to open his mouth and Garret almost appeared to casually walk in between the glittering teeth. SNAP the jaws shut.

I dropped my staff. I felt my stomach sink. I sank. I don’t know if I cried but I made no noise. How miserably we’d failed. It leaned toward me. It’s second snack, more bony and not as delightful, or so I assumed I’d be. His breath was hot, his teeth so white and I didn’t move. Suddenly he twitched violently and screamed. I barely dodged out of the way as I was simultaneously struck with a stream of hot blood.

Garret strode or rather limped forward out of the deep cavernous mouth and collapsed just outside its dead lips. I crawled to him. His sword remained inside the beast, plunged upwards through his skull at the very back.

“Garret?” I touched his face despite the blood, sweat, saliva and dirt. He was alive and we had won. And it had been as far from glorious as can be.

****

So you see I was never the hero but I was not insignificant either. I got him out of his battered breastplate that day and I carried him partway down the mountain before we both collapsed and rested deeply. I had been with him right up until the end. I was not a rock or a shadow or a pack-mule. I was the side-kick. The invaluable aide-de-camp, the person shouldering the mental load, the menial tasks. The person who, while not the dragon-slayer, still played a needed role. I love Garret deeply and he deserves those laurels upon which he rests. That I cannot stress enough. However I simply want the record to show that there were those he leaned upon, those he needed.

No hero ever stands truly alone.