Two Ways to Win

Penrose donned his armor, the polished metal sparkling in the early morning. After a night of lost sleep and sore elbows, it had better be sparkling. It wasn’t every day that you had the opportunity to become a knight of the realm. That most prestigious position was only afforded to a precious few. The title would change his life forever and move him far beyond the ranks of his traditional family status. Five years of practice, exams, preliminary rounds, and mandatory service. All that was left was one final challenge. Granted, it was a big one, but Penrose was confident. Training with a master swordsman had to be enough, didn’t it?

           Plate by heavy plate, Penrose buckled himself in. Armor wasn’t strictly necessary, or even helpful in some cases, but he found that the first step toward achieving status was to present it. He took a look in his mirror, a small pitiful thing, but good enough to catch a sliver of his reflection.

           “You look regal, Pen.”

           Pen jumped, his armor clanging with the motion and spun around. Albert, a man who aspired to a full pint of ale and not much else was leaning in the doorway. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on a knight.”

            “I’ll let you know if I see one.”

           Penrose stewed, but only for a moment. “You’re a right bastard.” He held out a hand.

           Albert clasped it with both of his. “A right bastard who’s come to cheer you on. Christ, that armor must be heavy.”

           Penrose released Albert’s hand. “Admittedly, yes, but it’ll do the trick.”

           Albert nodded. “You certainly look the part. Best get moving, there’s already a crowd outside.”

           Penrose took a last look at his humble room. There wasn’t going to be much to miss. He had packed the previous evening in preparation. All told, his life filled a pathetic knapsack. It didn’t matter, one way or another, he wasn’t coming back. He took a deep breath and followed Albert out the door and into the mud-strewn streets. The din was immediate. Packs of commoners were pushing through, winding their way toward the tournament grounds. Banners were held, makeshift horns were blown, hell, even the livestock seemed to be moving in the same general direction. The final trial brought the realm together.

           For years, Penrose had dreamt of this day. As a child, he wanted nothing more than a knighthood, and his mother wanted nothing more than to tell him it wasn’t possible. He wished the old bag was still around to see him, but sadly, she had been crushed by a plow years earlier. Penrose felt bad for the plow, it had only been doing its job, but his father had burned it for a witch all the same. Farmers, stupid people.  

           There was a rapping on the outside of his helmet. “You alive in there, Pen? Must be hot.”

           Penrose took a breath and centered himself in the moment. It would do no good to be distracted during the bout. “Yes, just… taking it all in.”

           “Aye, probably cooking in this heat too. Bad day for heavy armor if you ask me. Sure you don’t want to go home and change?”

           Penrose smacked him in the back, playful, but painful with his gauntleted palm. “If you’re here to support, support, but I’ll have none of this questioning. My head needs to remain clear.” He felt like a roast chicken in his armor, sweating and ready to be served.  

           “Alright, your lordship.” Albert made a mock bow.

           Penrose did not rise to the barb. A knight of the realm was straight-faced and proper. Besides, he would not be consorting with the likes of Albert for much longer. “Have you heard any rumors as to what the final trial is?” Every bout was different, but they all had one thing in common, mythical beasts. Albert was a pen worker, keeping the creatures fed and goading them to violence when necessary. It was shit work, paid worse, but it was consistent. Class systems tended to create a constant stream of commoners trying to move up the ranks.

           “You know I can’t work the pen when a friend is in the trial. Rules and all.”

           “But you do hear things.”

           Albert grinned. “I do indeed. I can’t tell you what it is, but I can tell you, much like today, it’s going to be hot.”

           “No…”

           “Oh aye, scorching even.”

           Penrose felt a chill run up his spine. The hint was simple enough, but… “There hasn’t been a dragon in the trials for a decade.”

           Albert threw up his hands. “Who said anything about a dragon?”

           They walked the rest of the way to the tournament grounds in silence, Albert chuckling to himself, and Penrose quietly wondering if he had made a terrible mistake. Of course, he had trained to fight dragons, but only against dummies. Dragons hadn’t been a threat since The Great War. Albert was probably pulling his leg. The low people were prone to their jests.

           When they approached the stadium, Penrose spotted a large sign for ‘Initiates’. “This is where we part ways, my friend.”

           Albert turned to face him. “It has been fun, hasn’t it?”

           “It has.”

           He moved from foot to foot. “Listen, you know you don’t have to do this, right?”

           There it is. “I know you feel that way, Albert, but this is all I have.”

           Albert frowned. “Oh, is it then? Well, good luck.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the main entrance muttering something that sounded foul.

           Penrose paused. Was life so bad? An image of returning to the farm to work with his plow-burning father rose unbidden and clear. Yes, life was that bad. Mind made up, he clanked his way toward the initiate’s sign. A knight stood next to it, polished gold armor practically a beacon. As Penrose approached, the knight held out a hand. “You certainly look the part, but I’m going to need your name.”

           “Penrose, soon to be Sir Penrose.” He put as much confidence in to the words as he could muster.

           The knight lifted a list that unfurled nearly to his knees. “Penrose. Well, we’ll see about that. You’re on the list, and lucky you, you’re one of the first, won’t spend all day baking in that armor like some of us. Head back and wait with the others, we’ll call your name.” He motioned toward a dirt path that led behind the grandstands.

           Being early on the list was a boon provided to few. The knights of the realm only opened two positions a year, and if early competitors completed the trial, the rest were sent home. Penrose gave the knight a small salute and made his way around the edge of the stadium. The idea of waiting somewhere that provided even a modicum of shade was enough to quicken his step. As he walked thoughts of status and evenings guarding the castle walls filled his head. Distractions, but pleasant ones, so he allowed them. Eventually, the path descended beneath the backside of the wooden grandstands.

Once in the shade of the structure, Penrose got his first good look at his fellow competitors. They were standing around a small, mud-strewn holding area. A boy, hardly older than fourteen was sharpening a wooden sword with a pocket knife. Off in another corner were three men that barely fit into their armor. They were laughing with one another, but Penrose could see the fear behind the jest. Others were simply leaning, eyes closed in prayer or concentration. How did they pass the trials?

           In an attempt to be gallant, Penrose gave the rest of his competitors a wave.

           None responded in kind, but an old man stood from a shadowy corner and hobbled over to him. “You certainly look the part.”

           “Thank you. You…”

           “Look like shite. I know. But this staff has a few tricks. We’ll see if it helps.” The man rolled up the edges of his robe and struck a stance that might have been intended for intimidation.

           “I’m sure it will.” Penrose thought the man would be mincemeat before long, but no sense in dashing his confidence. Wanting a way out of the conversation, he made his way to a rickety bench and sat down with a loud thunk. The other competitors were staring, so Penrose closed his eyes, breathed, and waited for the sound of his name. To his unpleasant surprise, the older man came and set next to him. He didn’t say anything, but the wheezy sound of his labored breathing was enough to keep Penrose on edge and far from relaxed.

           The morning passed, hot and longer than expected. Despite being one of the earlier names on the list, the last trial was an affair, with opening speeches, acts, and other such entertainment. Penrose listened. He had seen them all before, and in the dark confines of his helmet, he could almost imagine them again. The thunder of hoofbeats shook the stadium as riders did their laps, performing death-defying feats. A troupe of jesters created a mock battle commemorating The Battle of Two Bunkers. He couldn’t make out the queen’s speech, but he knew she had given one based on the rapturous applause that followed a poignant silence.

           Hours later, another knight came and called the first name. “John Phillips.”

           The young boy stood and carried his wooden sword toward the exit. There was a murmur of ‘good luck, lad’ from the other competitors, but it was clear none of them expected to see the boy again.

           “Poor kid, doomed,” muttered the old man beside Penrose.

           “He might make it.”

           “If they’ve brought in a vampire during daylight, maybe. But my guess, the second we hear that crowd cheer, he’s already dead.”

           “I’ll pray for him.” Penrose clasped his hands, the perfect image of a good, penitent knight.

           “Ah, God, yes, let’s hope he’s listening for once.” The old man spat.

           And how did you pass your religious rights I wonder…

           From above, the crowd roared with excitement. Drums beat frantically. Then, there was a shocked ‘Ooooh’, followed by silence.

           “I see God has once again taken the day off,” muttered the old man.

           Penrose stewed, happy the helmet would hide his own anger.

           Suddenly, he felt the old man’s hand wrapping around his own. “Look, you’re next, I can’t explain how I know it, but I know it.”

“You saw the list.”

“No, third sight, must be. You’re next. Before you go, know this, there is more than one way to win the trial. Remember the knight’s promise, protect the weak and serve the realm.”

           “More than one way to—”

           “Penrose,” called a voice from the door.

           “Trust me,” hissed the old man, grinning in a way that said he should most definitely not be trusted.

           Penrose stood, checking over his armor a final time. Everything was as it should be. He followed the knight at the door and into a narrow corridor beneath the grandstands.

           “Alright, rules are simple. They will announce you, they will announce the creature, and you will fight to the death.” The knight sounded bored.

           Simple enough, but the old man’s words echoed in his mind. “Is there another way to win the trial?”

           The knight stopped, thought about it for a second. “No.”

           Well, that’s that. Before Penrose had more time to think, they were at the gate. Golden sunlight streamed through an open door. Beyond, trumpets blared. This was the moment. He sucked in a breath and puffed out his chest.

           “For your consideration, farmer by birth, commoner by station, PENROSE!” roared a distant voice.

           The knight stepped aside and motioned for Penrose to move through. He did. The applause was deafening. Every cheer, clap, and whoop gave him the heart he needed to continue. Whatever fear or doubt had lingered in the back of his mind was gone. Penrose would be a commoner no more, he would slay the beast, and be done with it. The great dirt circle of the tournament grounds spread out before him, onlookers on every bench, eyes in every corner. He tried to ignore the trail of blood that led out of the center of the ring and focused on finding Albert instead. There were far too many people. Oh well. He stepped into the center and drew his great sword, shiny, unused, but sharp from a hundred nights under a patient whetstone.

           The crowd roared.

A distant announcer hushed them with outstretched palms. “But a challenger is only so good as the challenge itself. From the hinterlands, found deep within a cave by our most spirited magus, I give you a fearsome, dwarven dragon!”

           The stadium hushed as an iron crate was brought through a tall gate into the far side of the arena. Penrose squinted. The crate wasn’t large, and looking through the bars, he couldn’t see much of anything. Still, the attendants were taking whatever was in the box seriously. They slid a series of large iron pins out of the sides, ran back to where they had come, and slammed the gate shut. The box’s iron door fell forward, revealing the monstrosity inside. Only… it wasn’t a monstrosity.

           Sitting in the box, no more than two feet in length was a plump green dragon, less than a year old. It was curled up in a corner, tail wrapped over its eyes and breathing softly.

           “Let the trial begin!” shouted the announcer.

The crowd cheered, Penrose steadied himself, but the dragon did not move. He advanced, keeping a wary eye. As he drew closer, he could see that he was correct, this was no dwarven dragon – dwarf maybe, but nothing to write songs about. It was just a babe, hardly worthy of a tavern story and certainly not worthy of a trial. In a certain light, it was almost cute. Maybe some day it would be fearsome, but not this day. There is more than one way to win the trial… The words echoed in his head. A knight of the realm protects the weak…

Penrose’s head spun. All the while, the dragon slept. It would be in poor taste to run a sleeping baby through. That was common sense. Protect the weak. Maybe the old man hadn’t been lying. Perhaps this baby dragon was a test. The crowd had grown silent in his hesitation with a few tentative jeers beginning to crop up from the onlookers. Decisions had to be made. Penrose thought to what he knew of knights, all he had read, all he had studied, and sheathed his sword. “I would like to ask mercy on behalf of this poor creature!”

The announcer, puzzled, hustled over to the side of the queen. She tilted her head, considering the request and then spoke back to him. Once more, the announcer rushed forward. “No, I’m afraid it must be to the death.”

“Respectfully, it is a mere babe.” Penrose would kill the creature if he had to, but persistence was knight’s work.

“It’ll get bigger,” shouted someone from the audience.

“Fair point, it will get bigger,” offered the announcer.

“It’s half asleep!” shouted Penrose to the crowd.

“If it wakes up, it could burn the village!” called a woman from the crowd.

“I live in the village!” yelled another.

Penrose turned to the queen, exasperated. “Would you have me stick my blade through a creature that can’t even be bothered to—” The arena grew suddenly hot. Penrose looked at his feet, confused to see flames licking up from the soles of his boots. A wave of nausea swept over him, followed quickly by immeasurable and unyielding pain. He screamed and turned back toward the dragon.

Babe or not, the creature was out of its box and breathing a steady stream of green flame through its tiny jaws.

Penrose rolled, trying to put the flame out, but it only spread as the dragon turned its head gently back and forth, roasting him with barely any effort.  

“W-Wha—” Penrose tried, but faltered as his armor melted before him, closing his tiny view of the world. Pain was followed shortly by numbness. The old man played me. There was no anger, or much of anything for that matter. All he felt was heavy. His last thought as the light left the world was that he understood very much how the family plow had felt.