Daikaijuzine

His name was Alfie and he’d sworn to slay the dragon.

His full name was Alphimenoös Stoneacre Athelwight of Lesser Blossommere, but most people called him Alfie. He was short and proud and petty in the way of small-but-pretentious shopkeepers. Not a bad man, as such men go, yet he cared far less for the bed and board and women that comprise most men’s dreams, and far more for the glittering gold that the wise claim brings only misery. Actually, there were far fewer friends to call him Alfie than there were others to call him something else entirely.

So it was that on the night Alfie offered to slay the dragon–never dreaming he would be taken seriously–it was the very nature of the man himself that lent wings to a sarcastic comment and transformed it into bold proclamation.

Spoken in a moment of passion to end another of his fiancée’s tirades, it was forgotten in the next, having succeeded. The challenge slipped from his mouth and memory in the same breath and went on to become excited, informed rumor throughout Lesser Blossommere by supper, Greater Blossommere by nightfall and all the kingdom of Fwelland by the morn.

And so, the only person surprised that morning by the teeming throng gathered outside the Athelwight home, was Alfie himself. Disturbed at last from his sleep by the cheers outside his window, he threw open the shutters just in time to see the richly adorned carriage of the king cutting through the crowd toward his front door.

Alfie met His Royal Highness at the door in his pajamas, remembering to bow when everyone else did. The king muttered to his Prime Minister, “This him?” The Minster nodded.

“Alphimenoös Stoneacre Athelwight.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“This day shall be remembered by all the Fwellish people. Your name and deeds shall be preserved in lay and saga for generations!”

“My name, your Most Imperial Majesty?”

“For your bravery, you shall have from me this sword forged by the master-smith Herzog over a generation ago.” The sword, long and glittering, the hilt inset with many semi-precious stones was thrust into Alfie’s hands by the Chamberlain.

“Hurrah!” the crowd cheered.

“Why thank you, Oh Great and Powerful–”

“In honor of your selflessness, I gift you also with this flawless shield, heirloom of my house.” The shield was emblazoned with the king’s own coat of arms and when its straps were slid onto Alfie’s shoulder, his posture took on a decided list to the left.

“Hurrah!” the crowd cheered.

Alfie labored to interrupt, his face a study in puzzlement. “It’s beautiful, Your Worshipfulness, but–”

“And this mighty suit of armor.” The Chamberlain hurried forward with two attendants to heap chain mail and plate into Alfie’s arms. Pieces clattered in a pile around him, but he managed to retain the helmet with its bobbing crest.

“Hurrah!” the crowd cheered again.

“Oof! It is very heavy, Your Absoluteness, but why–?”

“And you shall have your pick of my finest war horses to be your steed.”

“Hurrah!” the crowd cheered yet again.

“Well. Thank you, Your Very Sublime and Wonderful–”

“And from this day forth, (for a period not to exceed two years) the family Athelwight shall be exempt from tax payment to the realm.”

“Hurrah!” Alfie cheered with the crowd.

“And lastly, in recognition of your great sacrifice, I hereby confer upon you the rank of Earl. Posthumously of course.” Another cheer.

“Two years!” Alfie marveled. “And an Earl too! Why this is…is…sacrifice? Did you say ‘posthumously,’ O Bastion of Royal Fortitude?”

“I and all the people of Fwelland join in wishing you the greatest luck in ridding my kingdom of that foul marauder…”

“Foul–”

“That ravager of our borders…”

“Oh no.” Alfie’s eyes grew wide and his voice shrank to a constricted squeak at the trace of memory that threatened to surface.

“That serpentine blight…”

“No.” And wider.

“That slayer of knights, whose breath issues in steam and fire from between sword-sharp teeth…”

“Miranda!” Alfie bawled.

“No, no, Rosywings. The dragon.”

But Alfie, apparently overcome with heroism, had fainted away, buried beneath his gifts.

“Hurrah!” The crowd cheered.

#

“Miranda, how could you?” Alfie said, his head on the table. The cries of luck and well-wishing from the few stragglers outside was aggravating his sinuses. His fiancée did not turn away from her looking glass, in which she was finishing her eyelashes and beginning on her pouting mouth.

The Stonacre family had been founding members in the Mercantile Guild two centuries before and Alfie–the heir apparent to this dubious gift of heredity–appeared to combine in himself none of the sparsely redeeming qualities of his forefathers, patience least of all. “Miranda, I asked how you could do this to me?”

She set down the jar of lip color and sat beside him. “Oh my poor, brave darling, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to surprise everyone?” She kissed his temple, leaving a smudge the color of the dragon’s wings. “I didn’t expect you to be so modest about such a sacrifice.”

“Don’t say ‘sacrifice!’“ Alfie moaned. “What am I going to do? The whole kingdom expects me to–”

He broke off at hearing a sound he’d never heard before: The sound of a silk gown sliding from the graceful curves of a body onto the wood floor. Alfie sat upright as she curled into his lap, kissing him soundly and working open his shirt buttons.

“Now!?” he exclaimed. “Why now?”

“Just to be safe.” She pulled off his undershirt.

“Safe?” he mumbled, trying to touch all of her at once.

“You need an heir. In case you don’t come back.”

“Back,” he murmured, kissing down her spine. “Come… Don’t…” He pulled back a handsbreadth. “Heir! We’re not even married yet!”

Miranda pulled him to her again. “A bastard heir is better than no heir at all.” She kissed him again with lips that tasted like raspberries and he gave up, and gave in.

#

The ride to the dwelling of Shibobkash the Sorcerer took nearly an entire morning, but, as the sage so often reminded the villagers of Lesser and Greater Blossommere, he was the only magician in town. He was a shriveled and shrunken man, immersed in layers of gray robes. He was by reported powerful, by reputation peevish, had little love for his fellow man and, like Alfie, cared far more for the gold by which they won his favors.

“So, you are the Hedgehog!” he said as he ushered Alfie into his hovel–complete with smoky, multicolored fires and bubbling unguents. “How delightful!”

Alfie bristled. “I am Alphimenoös Ston–”

“You want something?” Alfie nodded sullenly. “Then it’s ‘Hedgehog.’ I like it. It suits you.”

“Marvelous. I need your help, O Enchanter.”

“Do tell, Hedgehog.”

“I am sworn to slay Rosywings. Charged with the task by king and kingdom. Held by the honor of a rashly spoken word–”

“Rosywings?” Shibobkash looked puzzled.

“The dragon, Rosywings.”

“Which dragon?”

“We have only one dragon in this kingdom. Kills men-at-arms as if they were sheep? For that matter, carries off sheep and sometimes the shepherds too? Lives in that stinking hole up on the mount? Rosywings!”

“Never heard of it.”

“Are you mad? You named it yourself!”

“At the time,” Shibobkash stormed, “I was being sarcastic! ‘Think about its good points,’ I said. ‘It’s so pretty with its rosy wings,’ I said. Doesn’t anyone in this realm appreciate irony?”

“What is irony?”

“It’s—You—The–” Shibobkash, calming himself visibly, started over. “Irony is a selfish, spoiled, son of a merchant boasting that he could face one of our age’s most fearsome dragons…and then having to do it.”

“I do not think that I appreciate irony.”

“You’re bristling, Hedgehog.”

“Look Mighty Sage, are you going to help me or not?”

“Help you slay Rosywings? Are you mad?”

“You’re supposed to be powerful!”

“I am powerful!”

“Well?”

“What is my power against a beast as large as a stable? What are my talents against a creature armored with scales like iron plates? What is my magic against a monster whose breath issues in steam and fire from between sword-sharp teeth?”

“You have a gift for rhetorical interrogation.”

“Good Hedgehog! That was very close to irony.”

“Goodbye, magician.”

“Wait, wait. Why don’t you buy some advice from me? After all, I’m the only magician in town.”

“Some magician. Advice I can buy anywhere.”

“I give good advice”

Alfie hesitated. “Very good?”

“The best. Two hundred golden jips.”

“Goodbye, magician.”

“Wait, wait.” The old man sighed. “Make it a hundred.”

Alfie was looking at a skull on the workbench. “I have no use for it in the grave,” he murmured. He turned back to Shibobkash. “Very well. One hundred. Provided that you call me Alfie.”

“Oh, very well, Alfie. Jips?”

Alfie pulled a small cloth bag from his satchel, removed a handful of coins, and dropped the remainder into Shibobkash’s hand. The sorcerer hefted the bag and smiled. It vanished into his robes.

“You have, I believe,” said Shibobkash, “an enemy in Greater Blossommere who is named Dervayken?”

“It was he,” replied Alfie, “who gave to me the name of…you know.”

“It fits, though.”

“Get on with it!”

“Your taunter shall be your savior. You must seek him out in the sight of many.”

“Give me an example.”

“The tavern. Village square. Anything public. Seek him out and say to him that his mother slept frequently with herd animals.”

“What!?”

“Say to him that any woman who weds him will spend her night in a haystack, searching for a needle.”

“Are you mad?”

“Always you ask that. I tell you to say before the townspeople that Dervayken is as unsightly as a yak and not as intelligent by half.”

“He will kill me.”

“Ah! Will he indeed?”

“He will surely beat me beyond the ability to stand.”

“Hedgehog, are you always this slow?” Shibobkash spoke as if to a child. “He who cannot stand, can surely not be expected to fight a dragon.”

Understanding dawned on Alfie’s face. It would be a long and painful recovery, no doubt–Athelwights were slow to heal–but no one could blame him for that. They would, however, be glad to blame Dervayken for the situation. Laughing with relief and delight, he swept up the tiny sorcerer and swung him around.

“Call me Hedgehog forever if you like! You are brilliant, brilliant! I shall be a live hedgehog! Alive!”

#

Not a spectator breathed in the Stockpot Tavern and Spit as they waited for Dervayken’s reaction to Alfie’s scathing insults. Accusations of self-bestiality and speculations as to possible troll-parentage had been added to Shibobkash’s suggestions. Alfie had actually been compiling a carefully hidden list for years. Now, the huge man shook as his hands gripped the edge of the table. His breath hissed between clenched teeth. His brow darkened over his eyes–stormclouds above the blue sky. At last, he turned to face Alfie.

And roared with laughter.

Alfie could only stare, speechless, as the broad chest heaved with mirth. Dervayken threw a companionable arm around Alfie’s shoulders and drew him near as the other patrons dissolved into laughter both relieved and disappointed.

“You’ll not get out of it that easy, Hedgehog!” Derveyken whispered in his ear. “Tomorrow you’ll face the dragon, whose breath issues in steam and fire between sword-sharp teeth.” His own grin was huge and dangerous. “If Rosywings leaves anything of you, then we shall discuss my mother in great and exacting detail.” His fierce blue eyes stared into Alfie’s. “That much, I’ll promise you.” Laughing heartily again, he strode from the tavern.

#

Gar the tavernkeeper wanted to close for the night. The day had been long and not particularly lucrative, his feet ached miserably, and undoubtedly his hairline had again receded. But Alfie was, after all, a national hero, and one could not roll out a national hero with the rest of the drunks.

“Brilliant, magician,” Alfie said to his ale. “Simply brilliant. I have developed a true appreciation of irony on the last night of my life.”

The dwarf who scaled the stool beside him moved so swiftly and silently that to Alfie, besotted as he was, it seemed as though the little man had appeared from thin air. The dwarf had a long nose and chin, glittering eyes and tiny doll’s hands. He smiled at Alfie, who, convinced for the moment that despair had driven his besotted wits into the realm of delirium, continued to stare rudely, hoping this annoyingly cheerful hallucination would fade.

“Might you be the one facing the dragon tomorrow?” the hallucination asked.

“Are you a pixie?” Alfie wondered.

The apparition persisted. “Might you be the lad that’s to face the dragon tomorrow?”

“I might. I mighty…” Alfie giggled. “You short; me mighty.”

“I am,” said the dwarf, “called Terwilliger.”

“T’williger the Pixie.”

“I’m a dwarf.”

“Whatever. T’williger the dwarf. Doesn’t matter.” Alfie shook his head. “For me, nothing matters after tomorrow. I can be the deadest rich man in town, or a live pauper…anywhere else.”

“But if you stay, you’re dragon-bait.”

“Yup.” Alfie nodded. “Or rather I will have—or would be if I was still going to be here in when the sun comes up. Which I am not.”

“Hedge–er, Alfie–may I call you Alfie?–What if I was to tell you–” he looked around to be sure Gar wasn’t listening– “how to survive your encounter with Rosywings? Would that be worth something to you?”

“You’re going to tell me how to fight Rosydrag–Rosonwi–the dragon? You? Pardon me while I laugh: Ho. There, I think I’m done. Sorry, but I already bought one day’s worth of advice; I’m full.” He lifted his drink to his lips again.

“But Alfie, I know something about the dragon that no one else in the world knows. I can tell you how to be a hero. You can have it all.”

Alfie spent a few minutes considering his options in the slow swirl of his ale. Even running away would have its risks. Well he knew the kind of grudges an embarrassed king could bear: Alfie was sure to be outlawed on some charge. He was not well-versed in geography and had only been out of Fwelland once in his whole life. How hard would it be for some bountyman to track him down and bring him back?

“And you don’t really want to leave your lifelong home,” the dwarf said reasonably.

Had he been talking out loud?

“Yes,” said Terwilliger.

Oh. Or rather, “Oh.” Wasn’t it better to face his imminent doom without clouding the issue with another foolish hope?

No, he decided. When you’ve nothing left to lose, foolish hope was better than no hope at all.

He shook himself from contemplation. “Oh, hells, Terwiggly. How much is your wonderful dwarvish wisdom dworth, uh, worth?”

“Two hundred golden jips.”

“One hundred,” countered Alfie blearily, “seems to be more the going rate for life-saving advice.”

“Ah, a merchant to the end,” Terwilliger chuckled. “Fair enough. One hundred.”

From his satchel, Alfie took a little cloth bag and put it into the hands of the dwarf. Terwilliger smiled and began, leaning forward and rasping in a conspiratorial whisper.

“It just so happens, Alfie, that I was in the cavern of Rosywings less than a week ago.” He held up a tiny hand. “I’ll not bore you with my troubles. Suffice it to say that dire financial circumstances forced me to creep into that foul lair in the hope of pilfering something of worth from the mountains of treasure dragons are rumored to collect–A bald-faced lie, I can assure you. In any case, into the bowels of the earth I stole, fearing for my life, yet aching for a chance at solvency. And soon I came upon the sleeping bulk of Rosywings itself.

“First, the tremendous tail, spade-tipped and spiked. Then the broad back, armored with row upon row of scales like iron plates, all but hidden by the folded pinions of its scarlet-hued wings. The neck, curving sinuously up to the head. The mighty jaws agape and–”

“Yes, yes!” Alfie interrupted. “’And its breath issued in steam and fire from between sword-sharp teeth!’ Everyone says that. Make your point, dwarf, your tale is sobering me more than I like.”

“That is my point, Alfie: The breath did not issue in steam and fire from between sword-sharp teeth.” He looked around to see if the tavernkeep was near and lowered his voice again. “The sides did not heave with any kind of respiration at all. No tremendous heart beats beneath the scaly breast.”

The ale fumes were dispersing. “You mean–”

“Exactly! I stole forward and rapped on the eyelids, yanked on the forked tongue to be certain.” Terwilliger disclosed a balding and dandruffy pate by taking his cap from his head and covering his heart. “Rosywings is no more.”

“But when? How?”

“Who knows? It’s been more than a half-year since anyone saw it and dragons live on the high road. All that rich food. All that smoke and fire. Not enough real exercise. Who cares? Alfie, don’t you realize what this means?”

Alfie was on his feet. “I don’t have to fight Rosywings!”

“Shhh! Quiet, you fool. Don’t let old Gar hear.”

“Why not?”

“Because tomorrow, my inebriated friend, you can ride bravely up to the mouth of the cave in your armor. You can bellow some challenges, walk down, make a lot of noise, maybe start a little fire so that some smoke drifts out. You can hack off Rosywings’ head with your sword and drag it out on your shield!” He waited for a reaction. Waited, then: “Everyone will think that–”

“That I slew the dragon!” Alfie looked awed, then suspicious. “Wait, why tell me? Why not claim you killed Rosywings yourself?”

Terwilliger stood up to his full height and, even with a stool under him, had to look up at Alfie, who was not tall. “Questions?” He hefted his bag of golden jips with an effort.

Alfie swallowed laughter. His face glowed with the possibilities. “I’d be a hero of the kingdom. The king will make me an earl. I may already have Miranda pregnant; I’ll have a wife and an heir. And best of all, Dervayken, my worst enemy, will never dare to threaten or harm the man who defeated Rosywings.”

#

Through Lesser and Greater Blossommere rode Alphimenoös Stoneacre Athelwight, resplendent in his weaponry and valiant on his chosen charger. His confident, exuberant shouts rang through the streets and all who heard followed after him in a huge crowd. He raised his visor with an effort and smiled what he hoped was a brave and rakish smile that they would all remember. “And when I get back!” he exulted, “A round of ale for everyone!” After all, he reflected, tax-free Earls have to keep up appearances.

Deafening cheers. Young and old. Rich and poor. All joined in the spectacle. They stationed themselves in a great throng on a hilltop beyond town and watched the shining figure of Alfie ascend to the cliff of the dragon. Dismounting, he brandished his sword, his challenges still audible, but indistinct.

“He is so brave,” said Miranda from her vantage point amid the crowd.

“Very brave,” agreed Dervayken, at her side. His hand moved possessively across her hip and she shook it off gently.

“Not yet,” she admonished, her tone deep and husky. “I’ll need to make the claim on his title.”

On the distant crag, Alfie disappeared into the cavern of Rosywings.

His lips pursed thoughtfully, Dervayken took from his belt two cloth sacks, each holding one hundred golden jips. He turned and handed them to the waiting dwarf.