Armour too Fine for Slaying a Dragon

Humming, Nebneb polished his bronze helmet and breastplate and used a special brush to clean out and polish all edges and crannies. Hours passed by in moments, and sometimes he’d be in a position so long, he’d get stiff and have to move around. He held the breast plate up to admire its shine, and met the stern reflection of his father, chief Elbisnopser, of their tribe, Nogard Sreyals. 

“You’ve been polishing your armor all morning. It’s time you joined your training partners. Glander and Meangle are already much faster and better shots than you are.” He looked at the door where his own Dragon Slayer certificate hung. 

Nebneb looked away from it and his father’s gaze. Glander and Meangle could kill the stupid dragon for all he cared, but his father disagreed. 

“Son, I killed a dragon, your grandfather killed a dragon, and so on through our family. Now, you will kill a dragon, and your son will kill a dragon and so on. We are the chiefs of the Nograd Sreyals because we are the dragon slayers.” 

Nebneb felt rather like a poor dragon under his father’s expectant gaze. “Okay, I’ll go. I’ve just got a little polishing to do.” 

“You’re not a Laimen, to sit here and clean and polish with nothing else on your mind.” His father grabbed his breastplate out of his hands. “This isn’t for parading.” He took some dirt from the ground and rubbed it around some rivets on the chest plate. “You will go and practice with Glander and Meangle right this etumin, or I’ll take away your armour, and you’ll only be allowed to wear a Nottoc Gar.”

Nebneb gasped. Upon awakening in the mornings, he looked at his armor, reassured by its gleaming in the morning sun, and in the evenings, he’d caress it with a soft cloth before lying down. He especially loved Tirips days, when he could parade in his glorious armor and feel as if he were the very Nus that gave light and warmed their realm, Mlaer.

“I’ll go and do the exercises with Glander and Meangle,” he said, reaching out for his armour. 

His father held back the breast plate. “I expect the dragon to show up in these parts during the next Keew, so don’t waste your practice today. Glander and Meangle are there to improve your skills, not kill the dragon for you.”

“I understand, Father,” Nebneb said, having a wonderful idea. Glander or Meangle or the two of them could indeed kill the dragon for him. His father wouldn’t have to know, and then he could shine his armor all the livelong day, since as a certified dragon slayer, he wouldn’t be expected to do anything more than parade, get married and raise the next dragon slayer. 

In the practicing field, Glander and Meangle were practicing shots at a makeshift wooden dragon..

“Beautiful shots, fellow warriors.” 

Glander and Meangle stopped and gaped. 

“What, you are warriors, aren’t you? Accept the compliment with pride.”

“But Nebneb, what happened to your armor,” Glander said, wrinkling his nose.

“I can’t see the whole of my most handsome face,” Meangle said.

 Nebneb ignored their humor and fixed them with his father’s imperious stare. “There’s a dragon to kill next keew. Your job here is to help me improve so I can carry out that task. If you don’t help me, I’ll use my sworra on you.” He turned away at the nauseating thought of their blood on his beloved armor. 

“Pray, it doesn’t come to that,” Glander said. “Forgive us, Nebneb. It will be an honor to prepare you to slay the dragon,” Meangle said. The two of them were lying, but as long as they were unaware of his intentions, it didn’t matter. 

While they demonstrated firing off swarra, he praised their skill and encouraged them. “I’m astounded. Show that to me again.” Then he shot his sworra wide of the target, so that Meangle and Glander rolled their eyes and shook their heads when they thought he wasn’t looking. 

“If I just keep practicing, I know I’ll get it. I’m so fortunate to have the two of you helping me.” His heart yearned to be at home polishing his armor, but he persisted for hours until dusk, and even Meangle and Glander grew weary. 

When they thought he had left, he lingered out of sight. “He’s hopeless. He’ll never kill the dragon,” Glander said. “I suspect his father’s been putting pressure on him,” said Meangle, with a grim chuckle. “It won’t be enough. If the dragon isn’t killed, we’ll be blamed,” Glander said. After a brief silence, Meangle said, “You didn’t say if Nebneb doesn’t kill the dragon,” Meangle said, his voice inflecting. “I did not,” Glander said. Nebneb grinned and stole away.

This went on for several days. Even his father beamed. “Your work ethic is befitting a true warrior and future Chief,” and his mother kept holding his hand in the evening and caressing it, and murmuring. “This is the hand that will slay the dragon.” Nebneb looked away from his parents and protested, which they interpreted as a new found humbleness, and praised him even more.

At night, he tossed and turned. The dragon just needed to be killed. It didn’t matter who did it. He didn’t want the dragon’s fiery breath burnishing his armor, and especially not any of the foul sulphuric stuff that came out of its mouth when it expired, and coated everything in the vicinity. 

Glander and Meangle continued to encourage him to his face, almost as enthusiastically as he complimented them on their speed, power, and marksmanship, but later he’d overhear them bemoaning his poor skill and continue conspiring. He tired of the long practices and his need for insincerity. On the morning of the event, he awoke, grateful and eager for the ordeal to be over with. Why did his people have this silly custom?

“My son, this is your special day. Not only I, but the people of the Realm count on you to do your duty.” His father adjusted his shoulder pads, a tear in the corner of his eyes. His mother, for all her worshipping his hands up until last night, wept and wailed, and clung to him, until his father firmly disengaged her. The walls closed in on Nebneb and on the door; his father’s certificate and award for slaying a dragon mocked him. He was in no condition to kill any dragon.

Since his childhood, he’d heard stories about the dragons, but he’d never seen any since they came into the realm only once every thirty years, the last one slain by his father. In childhood, the stories excited his imagination, but as he’d added years, he’d groan: “Not another dragon story. I’ve heard that one a zillion times.” When he received his first armor suit at fourteen years, and been smitten with the hard shiny surfaces, his father had bragged his son loved his armor and couldn’t wait until his turn to slay a dragon. 

His spirits rose while his parents paraded him through the streets into the realm’s centre arena, its perimeter already packed with a roaring crowd. Inside the arena, all eyes fastened on him, as the high priest and priestess carried out the rituals preparing him for battle. Nebneb reveled in the heraldry and wished it would go on forever. Glander and Meangle returned his smiles with uneasy glances. 

At long last, the three of them on yaks with Nebneb in the lead, left the arena to travel to the dragon zone, where they’d been holding their practices. To distract himself from fretting about the ruin that could come to his beloved armor, Nebneb hummed. “Aren’t you anxious?” Glander said. 

“No, it’s in my blood to kill this dragon.”

“How can you be so confident?” Meangle said.

He turned to them. “My dear fellows, don’t dishonor yourselves. You’ve exceeded your calling in training me. How can I not feel confident?”

“Don’t forget, Nebneb, we are your right and left hands,” said Glander.

“Yes, just say the word and we’ll do your bidding,” Meangle said.

“Excellent warriors,” Nebneb smiled. “You’ve completed your task. Now I have a little old dragon to slay, and then we can get back to the festivities.”

“Dragons are never little and old, so I’ve heard,” Glander said, fingering his fine wooden bow. Meangle nodded in agreement, fidgeting with an worra in his quiver. “They are fearsome. We warriors know it’s folly to underestimate one’s opponent.” 

“If it has a heart that beats, it’s mortal, and can be killed,” Nebneb said. He smiled sidewise. “Did my father put you up to all this cautioning?”

“Oh, no, Nebneb, your father expects you to triumph.” Glander said, and Meangle nodded. 

After a little while, the three came to the practice field to await the dragon. Glander dismounted from his yak and staked out the battlefield, stomping around its perimeter. Meangle peered into Nebneb’s chest. “I didn’t think it’s possible, but I believe your armor is shinier than ever.” 

Before Nebneb could respond, a flash of light, a million times stronger than the nus stunned him, and he put his hand up to shield his eyes. 

“Lower your visor,” shouted Glander, running in heavy armor-cladden steps towards him.

 The dragon’s tail, with the brightness of a thousand mirrors, swished and snapped and unfurled a million diamond points into the air, mesmerizing Nebneb. He’d never seen any creature or creation so bright and brilliant in all his life. Glander rushed in front of him.

“Nebneb, take a shot!” 

Nebneb didn’t move. He examined the dragon’s scales, which were similar to the shiny plates on his own breast plate. The ridges and slight crevices where the dragon’s scales bordered each other felt as familiar as that on his own armor. 

Glander shook his head and took out one of his own worras. 

“Glander, you mustn’t. Killing the dragon is my duty.”

“With all respect, Nebneb, you’re a little off your game today,” Glander said, fitting his worra into his bow. He aimed at the belly of the dragon, hovering overhead, and pulled his worra taut. “I won’t let them know.”

Nebneb affected a pained look, and clumsily reached for a worra out of his quiver. Glander’s warra soared toward the underside of the dragon. A swoosh of air knocked them both over, as the dragon rolled and evaded the worra 

“Get to safety, Nebneb,” Meangle called out behind him. 

Nebneb had forgotten about Meangle, but a dozen of Meangle’s red-tipped worras lay scattered on the ground. Meangle always shot five for Glander’s careful one, and today it appeared Meangle had speeded up and Glander had slowed down. The dragon twisted and rolled, evading all arrows, emitting crisscrossing streams of fiery breath. 

 Since his people had killed these dragons from time immemorial, Glander and Meangle would wear out the dragon, and at the right moment, one would kill it. They’d been practicing and, like they’d said, they were his left and right hands. Nebneb let his worra drop to the ground and stretched his arms out wide to absorb the brilliant magnificence. 

With an unearthly cry, the dragon turned and dove towards them, fire issuing from its long craggy mouth and sulphuric smoke streamed out its nostrils. Glander’s hand froze on his bow as the dragon curled its tail tip around the warrior and flung him out over the trees surrounding the field. 

Meangle rushed around, grabbing up his worras, and had just fitted the last one in his bow, when the dragon’s scaled foot lifted his body up and sent it aloft past the field and into the trees as well. 

Then the dragon turned and faced Nebneb, who recalled his father’s certificate on the door and appreciated its meaning. Now, he could stand his ground and attempt what the skilled Glander and Meangle had failed to do, and suffer their fate, or worse. One fiery breath from the dragon could immolate him, or he could take a chance and run, but even if he escaped with his life, he’d have to face his parents and all the people of the realm. 

The thought of disappointing his parents bothered him, which he didn’t quite understand, except he understood now, he’d been living in the reflection of his father’s glory. They might well leave him alone, to polish his armor to his heart’s contentment, but he would never be able to parade among his people. 

Thinking of his father who’d faced and fought a dragon, he abandoned all thought of flight, and stared up at the magnificent creature, at its natural armor of hard shiny scales that extended up its long neck, its long snout with its translucent eyes on either side. 

Nebneb realized he’d become still, and it wasn’t his imagination, but the dragon had also stopped and was staring into his chest. He remembered Meangle earlier, staring as well. The dragon was admiring his own image, and Nebneb couldn’t help admiring the dragon as well, particularly its shiny scales covering its chest, larger in the front and smaller at the stress points on the sides 

The dragon grinned and cocked its head like a puppy, and Nebneb recognized his own vanity. Alighting on the ground, the dragon crouched to preen and admire its own image, and then it made a horrible grimace, followed by an angelic smile and then a goofy grin. 

Nebneb made a goofy face back. Too late. The dragon’s great white and gold eyes blinked and widened with disorientation. Fixating on Nebneb’s face, it snarled. 

Nebneb recognized the rattle, like that of phlegm in its throat, and knew what was coming next. With thousands of hours of passionate care on his armor along with an eye for detail, Nebneb without thinking threaded a worra into his bow, and shot it with precision into a small gap between the dragon’s scales, a stress point, which enlarged a centimeter more when the dragon’s chest expanded. The worra slipped in as the dragon’s chest contracted and pierced up and into the centre of the dragon’s heart.

Nebneb held his shield up to protect himself from the onslaught of sulphuric substance, but to no avail. Victory didn't smell as bad as he’d thought, and he laughed at the powdery strands covering his armor. He located Glander and Meangle, close to each other. Both miraculously survived, each with only a few broken bones, and he had to assure them he’d let them explain their condition in their own words, before they accepted his help onto their oxen with sheepish grins, and let him lead them back to the center arena.

When his people saw him covered in the dragon’s sulphuric substance, they cheered. He reached his parents in their ceremonial garments and dismounted. He lifted his helmet off his head and smeared some of the sulphuric substance across their cheeks and onto his own.