By the Pound, Ethically Sourced

“A dragon is not a devil.” Mordred takes a deep drink of rich red wine. The drink is sweeter and more bitter than the one he grew up on. Without water to dilute it, Mordred can only handle a few sips at a time.

The villager standing before him waits, ears red and chin pulled down as he tries to avoid Mordred’s gaze. Eventually the dramatic pause carries on too long into awkwardness. The villager clears his throat to speak. “I-I don’t understand, Sir. Do you mean you will not fight him?”

“A dragon is not a devil because he is something far worse.” Mordred sets his wine beside the other man’s offering. A few silver plates and utensils, a pitcher carved from opal. At his feet, beside the small table, is a months’ worth of grain. Selling everything wouldn’t be enough to replace the gold on his bracer, much less account for a scale on his breastplate. “You expect me to risk myself for less than I would pay for a pig?”

The villager’s face grows pale. He is a water-thin man, all pallor and bones. He has patched the holes in his shirt with unmatched threads he recycled from some dark clothe that must have outlived its use. The only thing worth anything on the man is the handful of hobbled together stone jewelry he’s already offered the knight.

“But if you don’t do it Sir… You’re the only knight around here who has defeated a dragon. No one else knows how.”

“What’s your name?” Mordred’s cup is empty now. Company makes the drink flow faster, he swears. “And tell me quickly man, or there will be nothing to convince me to help.”

“Well. I’m Arthur, Sir.” Arthur’s thick knuckled fingers pass over themselves. “My wife’s lost her flock to the dragon, Sir. There’s nothing to it; it must die for that alone.”

Mordred hums in consideration, sitting back in his chair to study the total offering. There is also the matter of harvesting. With sole claim to a dragon’s hide, he could make up the missing cost. Dragon skin and scales in the market are valuable, but far rarer since the creation of the Pact.

Waiting until the dragon’s attack to hunt them has done greater things for the survival of the surrounding villagers. A dragon gone to madness is far less dangerous than a dragon with his wits about him. Though sometimes the common people suffer in the attack, the truth is that far fewer of them fall to injury than when they traveled with the hunting parties.

“What sort of dragon plagues you?”

Poor Arthur sways. He has somehow grown even paler in the moment Mordred has been considering his payment.

“An emerald one, Sir. He’s not over-large, as far as dragons are concerned, Sir.”

Mordred bites back the distaste that threatens to bubble into a snarl on his face. A smaller green dragon is no easy target. They dart around attacks and circle their prey. Even the stricken ones are strategists. More than one knight has been found frozen in a torturous pose after falling to the poison they seep from the gill-like slits in their ribcages.

He’d have preferred to hear of something like the black dragon chewing on their sheep. Black dragons are large and slow and harmless so long as they do not get their mouth around their opponent.

“Return at the end of the week. I will give you my answer and send you on your way.”

Arthur’s face flashes red, as if all the blood rose in anger. He even gapes for a moment, searching for a verbal weapon to thrust into Mordred’s response. In the end his neck sinks into his shoulders. He sighs, deeply. “Yes, Sir. I’ll return then.”

Mordred isn’t a fool to the struggles of the smaller villages outside of Lord Bryson’s city gates. Any more than their offering and they’d have likely starved. But they don’t know the depths of what they’ve asked. The risks involved are far greater.

Mordred has seen knights return from battle with limbs turned hard and black like charcoal, burned by a fire so hot that their skin and muscle are petrified. He has felt the clammy, cold skin of a man half covered in boils. A dragon does not have mercy on their enemies. The dragons in the stories don’t even realize they battle men. The red eyes of the cursed beasts who’ve succumbed to wildness do not see the armor or the swords. They do not have ears to hear, and all their thoughts are gone from them.

“Gil,” he calls. A stout man leaning against a doorway jumps. The young lady he’s been eying jumps as well. Maybe he’d been more than eying. Is there anything more useless than a guard surprised by his charge’s voice? Mordred shakes his head. “Gather a day’s supply of food. Place it with my riding gear.”

“A trip, sir?”

“No, I intend to strut about town on my horse.” Mordred stands and pushes his chair back. Arthur watches him, as if he may decide any moment to ride out with urgency to protect his wife’s sheep. “Yes, you fool. A decision to hunt a dragon cannot be made lightly in the tavern.”

No. Mordred must go to the Thorns. They so often know what to do.

“Yes, Sir.” Gil rubs his beard for a moment. “Do you want your usual armor, Sir?”

“Of course. And the usual allotment.”

Gil shrugs then turns back to his silent flirting with the barmaid. A useless guard, yes. But one who doesn’t care enough to question Mordred’s strange rituals.

Arthur eventually leaves after Mordred has ignored him long enough. The night is not the time to start a journey. Besides, Mordred already had a half bottle of wine. He may as well wait until morning.

The morning opens harshly. Last night he collapsed into his bed at such an angle that now the sun cuts into his eyes and warms his face. In the already too hot room, wrapped as he is in his overshirt and trousers, the sensation is unwelcome.

Gil beats incessantly at his door. The banging beats like horses’ hooves into his already splitting head. What man would suffer this for even fine drink?

“Gil, would you shut it now?” Mordred wipes the spit from his lip. “The door didn’t mean to affront you, I’m sure.”

Gil stops. Mordred makes him sit there for an extra minute as the pain in his head dulls to a single ache. When the door swings open, Gil stands leaning against the doorway, half undone all over.

“You had a good night, I see.”

Gil cares enough to button up a few of his vest’s wooden buttons. “She was relentless, Sir. Not much to be done.”

“Not doing was an option.”

“Aye,” Gil drops the pack in his hand. “And so was dropping dead in the tavern hearth, and I chose to ignore it all the same.”

Mordred doesn’t bother to entertain Gil’s vulgarities. The man would talk until the devil stole his tongue about the women of Lysandra’s cobblestoned streets. Mordred rarely has time to indulge him. And when he does, the man is off gathering up more to say.

The bag is the right weight. One would be surprised how heavy a jar of oil and a stack of tack could be on the shoulder of a man already wearing forty pounds of thin pounded bronze. The added weight of Mordred’s own special armor is enough to turn any extra ounces into pounds.

“Is my horse ready?” Mordred drapes the bag over his shoulder.

“Yes, Sir.” Gil stretches and gestures for Mordred to leave the room first. “And the spare as well.”

“Good.”

The armor is tricky. Gil has never quite gotten the hang of the order of buckles. Mordred decides against the full set but even the chest plate, gauntlet, and greaves are unwieldy in the small stables. The early morning light is not enough for Gil to see properly. He clasps the wrong buckles at least twice. When he is finally finished, he steps back and nods once in approval of his work.

The full effect is undeniable, no matter how poorly placed. The bronze is coated in gold and polished daily. Inlaid into the sides and in a serpentine pattern are red dragon’s scales. Despite being long departed from the dragon who grew them, they emit a warm, subtle glow. The effect is only heightened by the deep red to faded pink gradient of each scale. No visible scuffs or burns mar the perfect surface. Each piece was crafted by a skilled armorer and held by simple enchantment.

“That Arthur fellow asked for you.” Gil clears his throat and puts his hand on his hips, puffing out his chest. “The pay may not be spectacular, but your reputation could handle a good bolstering. It’s been a while since you—”

“Do you know what it takes to kill a dragon, Gil?”

“Well, I’d say I know better than most, Sir.”

“And how would you say that?”

“Well, on account of I’ve been your manservant.”

“Yes, my manservant. So, you do not know what it takes to kill a dragon.” Mordred shakes his head. “It requires a blade smithed with dragonblood. I do not have one. Do you, Gil?”

Gil crosses his arms. “No.”

“Then you understand why I must go and retrieve one before I can determine whether I can take on this monumental task for the change the villagers could scrounge up between them.” Mordred shakes out his hands to settle his fingers into the stiff gloves of the gauntlets.

“Of course, Sir.” Gil nods in approval. Mordred ignores it. Too often people make up their minds for others. “Have a good journey, Sir.”

Three hours later Mordred stands at the edge of the thickest trees that circle the city. The horses jump at the sticks that crunch beneath their feet and the birds chirping overhead. Their ears lay back. Horses are not overly fond of Mordred. He can’t blame them. He’s not overly fond of them either.

The trees give way to a clearing. Sun filters over tall white topped weeds and bright yellow wildflowers. The grass brushes against the horses’ knees. The summer bugs and their myriad music are in full swing. Despite the noise and soft ground and half a dozen other irritants, the horses fight to stop in the clearing.

Mordred would fight too, if he were a horse in this valley. Ahead of them, beyond a thin veil of tall birch trees and golden leaves, is a curve of thorns like barbed wire. The spell on the bramble is thick and potent and unmistakably malicious. They pile on each other in a tangle of sharp points and black vines. Each one has a silver sheen, so that they glint like a pile of black blades.

His horse begins to buck him when they have passed the halfway point of the clearing. The rope leading the second pulls taut and they are at an impasse for several minutes. Any beast responds to pain, however. This is a lesson that has proven true many times for Mordred. And will many more, he’s sure.

A few harsh digs of his boots into the horse’s ribs are all it takes to propel them reluctantly forward. They break the line of birches and for miles all he can see is the dark splinter of blades. The grass between the brambles grows brittle and white. Stone-gray dirt breaks through and overall, the landscape is bleak. For the creature that lives here, glowing under the viny prison like a hot coal, the setting makes perfect sense.

Many have traveled here aside from him. As far as he had ever known, no one else had seen the Valley of Thorns, broken only in a sliver barely big enough for himself and his horses to march through in a line.

Years ago, when he was only an ambitious teen squire, he had slashed his way through the bramble. An unkind witch with a scornful eye had cursed him to wander. Oh, how he would thank her later. In fact, he takes a moment to thank her now before he reaches the dragon’s den. 

“Do not look so smug, Trespasser.” The voice rumbles through the solid earth and barren land, swelling against the thorn prison. “You are not yet worthy of what you stole.”

“And in your estimation, I will never be.” Mordred isn’t concerned with the voice. He approaches the center of the valley where the glowing ember waits.

Upon approach, the creature shrinks. The dragon could never be small, but Mordred doesn’t miss the way the legs and arms tuck under the body, the head settling down until Mordred is faced with a lone, bright eye. “Have you come to take more for your stack of gold? Does your armor and your title not satisfy you? Must you also build a mansion from my bones?”

“Ah, that would never do.” The horses no longer fight. The thorns and the voice and the place know what they are meant for and soothe them in preparation for their sacrifice. Mordred would prefer to leave with his own horse so he could quickly return to his city. Unfortunately, sometimes the dragon isn’t satisfied with one and so takes another. None of it matters to Mordred. He can walk back home with only a little more effort.

“You would never give me the comfort of such finality.” The dragon’s nostrils pour smoke, black and thick with oily soot. The beast’s voice growls through the darkness. The ground trembles below Mordred’s feet.

Mordred is guided by the glow of red scales and a thin line of silver magic that casts itself in a net over the dragon’s prone position.

The horses follow behind him in with dreamlike ease. He ties one to the stake closest to the beast’s head—by now he knows where it is without having to search for it. The other he allows to roam freely.

If the dragon wants it, he’ll lure it closer on his own. “So long as you are stuck here, I may as well make use of you.”

“You could kill me and get much more.” The dragon hisses between bites. The horse never did make a sound. All Mordred can hear is the crunch of bone and snap of muscle.

“That would be a waste. Your hide would get me a good price, once. The bones and muscle too. But only once.” Mordred seeks out the tail. He’d started here, all those years ago. At first, he had only plucked and sold the scales. His home and title were bought off the money he’d made over the course of several months harvesting them. When asked what he was doing, he’d only said he was hunting a beast and would bring in the whole thing soon. “I can do this forever, if need be. An endless fount. You should feel appreciated.”

“I have never known the reach of human greed. It is almost impressive.” The dragon’s voice is tired. This is the last thing he says for a long, long while.

In fact, he doesn’t speak again until Mordred’s knife digs into the line beneath the tail’s ridge. The long rope of scale and bone and muscle twitches. For the dragon, it is like a knife under a nail. For Mordred, it is a battle just to hold the tail in place. Finally, with a growl and a shot of weak fire, the knife pierces into thick skin. Blood pours out, and Mordred must be quick to catch it in the jar of oil.

“What use do you have for blood of a red dragon?” The voice booms, and the vines tremble, and for just a short moment, Mordred fears that the magic of this place—the prison of thorns and embers—will not be able to bind the dragon. The tremor in his hands almost cost him the mixture. He catches it just in time.

“There is another like you. Or like you would have been, out there in the wilderness where your brothers go mad.” Mordred carefully closes the top of the jar and places it back in his bag. He may as well grab some new scales while he is here. They pop off easily now. All it takes is a quick shove of his knife below them and a sharp tug upwards. He’s well practiced.

“And what will you do with him, if he doesn’t kill you first?” The dragon’s fire is already fading. In the thorns there is no magic. The dragon has no power. Not even the power to lift his wings or his claws or his teeth against the trespasser.

“I will have a new set of armor.” Mordred gathers his final supplies. He can hear the crunch of the second horse behind him. “And you will have a new friend.”

“May he rend the skin from your flesh and the flesh from your bone.” The dragon’s voice fades. “May your descendants be hunted to the corners of the earth until your name is only remembered for the dragons who killed you.”

“For the dragons who will no doubt eventually kill me,” Mordred laughs and slings his full pack over his shoulder once more. “I will be remembered as a wealthy hero. What do I care what the world thinks of me after I’m dead?”

Smoke seeps from the thorns. Mordred doesn’t look back as he heads back to where Arthur waits. Arthur, and the new dragon for Mordred’s collection.

He wonders if he should make a new full plate suit in green?