I. ~ Ferryman ~
“That’s it?” asked Sir Aldrich. He sounded disappointed.
The ferryman nodded. “Aye, the tower at the center of the lake, just like you asked.”
“Indeed,” the knight replied. “It’s just… I thought it would be taller.”
“It’s not the sort of tower you climb.”
The ferryman leapt into the shallows and pulled his boat ashore, holding the prow steady so Sir Aldrich could disembark. The tower loomed over them both, perhaps twenty feet high from bank to rampart and so wide around there was barely any shore to stand on. The ferryman knew just where to land, though. He had made this trip before—many times, in fact.
“The door is on the far side,” he told the knight. “Should be open.”
“And the Amulet of Margaroth, it’s in there?”
“Don’t know,” said the ferryman with a shrug. “Never been inside. You’re not the first to come here looking for it though.”
“I’m not?” asked Sir Aldrich, doubt troubling his regal features as he surveyed the tower. “Has someone already found the amulet?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Then what happened to them?”
The ferryman regarded his latest charge with sympathy. Sir Aldrich, busy studying the moss-covered stones, did not notice.
“They never came back up.”
To this the knight only nodded. Likely he had not even heard the ferryman. His path was set—there was no turning back now, no matter the dangers, for that is what heroes did.
The fools.
Sir Aldrich took his first few steps around the tower, then looked back to the ferryman. “Thank you, my friend. You’ve been a great help.”
The ferryman grunted, not quite making eye contact.
“You’ll be here when I return?” the knight asked. There was such certainty in his voice.
“I’m always here,” was the ferryman’s non-answer. Sir Aldrich nodded once more and, head held high, proceeded around the far side of the tower and out of sight.
The ferryman climbed back into his boat and pushed away from shore.
As ever, the return journey to the far bank was a lonely one for the ferryman, but this was the job he’d signed up for. Guilty feelings would help nothing, for he’d done nothing wrong; on the contrary, he was never anything but honest with the would-be heroes who came to him looking for passage. He didn’t know who sent them, or why they quested for the Amulet of Margaroth in the first place, or if it was even down there inside the inverted tower somewhere. None ever returned to tell him.
The ferryman never gave up on the knights, of course. Every day he rowed back to the tower, compelled not by hope so much as a grim sense of duty, but always in vain. Perhaps the tower descended forever into the center of the earth, and the unlucky knights only realized the truth once they’d quested too deeply to complete the return climb. Or perhaps there was some monstrosity at the bottom for which their knightly virtues were unequal. Ultimately it didn’t matter, for the outcomes were the same. The one thing he did know was to collect his payment upfront.
At the far bank the ferryman ran his boat ashore, stowing his oar under the seat. Job done… and yet, with that first step back on dry land, Sir Aldrich’s silver clinked in his pocket, and the ferryman was overcome with a sudden self-loathing. The knight had seemed a decent man, yet this was all that was left of him, a single piece of silver. How cheaply he’d traded his life away. How little it had cost the ferryman to be bought.
It wasn’t worth it anymore, shepherding men to their deaths. Not for a few meager coins. The ferryman looked at the boat again, then dug in his pocket and retrieved the silver coin. He rubbed his thumb across its face, then tossed it back into the boat. It landed in the hull with another tinny clink.
The rising patter of hoofbeats echoed through the forest, signaling a rider approaching up the trail. Another knight, dressed in glittering steel plate and a scarlet silken cape. Not so much as a single mud stain on it. He dismounted, wasting no time as he hitched his horse to a nearby tree—failing to notice Sir Aldrich’s horse hitched in a similar fashion nearby—and made directly for the ferryman with a purposeful stride that spoke of destiny.
“You there,” said the knight. “I am Sir Constable, come to seek the Amulet of Margaroth which is said to reside in a tower at the center of this lake. Are you the ferryman who shall take me across?”
The ferryman looked at the boat behind him, then back to the knight. “Nope. Row yourself.”
II. ~ Damsel ~
Princess Daphne was fed up.
Two weeks she’d been waiting to be rescued. Fourteen days since she’d been kidnapped from her own birthday ball. An entire fortnight(!), stuck at the top of this godforsaken tower, sleeping on a flea-ridden straw mat, pissing in a bucket, eating boiled potatoes and charred squirrel. Worst, she had no change of clothes, and her ball gown was now so ripe, she’d started breathing through her mouth to avoid her own stench. It was far past what even the palace laundress could manage; once she was finally saved from this nightmare and returned home, the dress would need to be burned.
If she was saved. With each passing day Daphne grew less sure. Her father, King Harod, was a stubborn man. He’d likely scoffed at the kidnappers’ ransom demands, opting instead to send a gallant knight out on a daring rescue attempt. As plans went, it was a simple one, but the formula was tried and true:
1) Track the kidnappers.
2) Storm the tower.
3) Kill all involved.
4) Sweep Daphne off her feet, and
5) Return her safely home.
For step six she would likely have to marry the knight who pulled it off, but that was a small price. At this point Daphne was willing to wed the first man to offer her a bar of soap.
Her kidnapper didn’t knock; he simply barged in, grinning wickedly as he fished in his pocket and tossed Daphne another soft potato. This one had started to sprout, but at least it had been cooked through. She could eat around the green buds.
“Enjoying your stay in the penthouse?” the wicked man asked. Strolling over, he snatched at her wrists and examined her manacles. Of course they were still secure, the metal clinging to Daphne’s forearms like jaws of ice, the chains long and heavy and anchored into the wall with iron spikes. The wicked man knew this; it was all pretense. His examination was thorough, his fingers lingering upon her, turning Daphne’s skin prickly cold. She could do nothing to stop him, but pride dictated she at least glare her defiance. This only seemed to amuse the wicked man, who looked her up and down with callous, hungry eyes before finally letting her go. The chains clanked against the bare stone floor.
“You should try a smile every now and then, princess,” he teased. “You’re going to be stuck here a while, and things could get a lot worse for you if you’re not nice to me…”
“What do you mean?” Daphne asked. The first words she’d spoken in weeks came out as a desperate rasp.
“Oops, did I forget to tell you?” The wicked man’s grin widened. “Your father declined the ransom.”
Daphne had known the news was coming, but it was still a gut punch. Chin high and sounding more convinced than she felt, she said, “He will send someone to find me, then. My savior is likely already on his way.”
“Oh, is he?” The wicked man had himself a good laugh while Daphne sat silent, clutching at her chains to keep from shaking. Not from fear, but rage. How dare he mock her.
“Silly girl.” Wiping tears of merriment from his eyes, the wicked man turned for the door. “No one’s coming to save you. We’re too well hidden, too well fortified. You’re not leaving here until I—”
Cold iron cut off his last words as the chain wrapped around his windpipe.
“Die!” Princess Daphne hissed, tugging so hard that the wicked man toppled backward onto her. Still she kept pulling, using the leverage of their combined weight against chain’s wall anchor. The sputtering lasted an unthinkably long time, the wicked man thrashing every which way in an effort to free himself, but in vain. Daphne continued to pull long after he’d gone limp, just to make sure. Then she rolled him over, searched his pockets for the key, and freed herself.
How easy it had been. Daphne marveled at the fresh corpse before her, supposing she should feel remorse, but she didn’t. He was wicked, after all. He’d trapped her in this tower for weeks. She only regretted not trying sooner. No one’s coming to save you, he’d said.
So be it. Daphne would save herself.
The wicked man had carried a dagger he wouldn’t be needing anymore. Daphne, however… There were three others who had helped kidnap Daphne, and part of her—the part which had first raised the chains—hoped they were all downstairs waiting.
Twenty minutes later Princess Daphne strode out of the tower a free woman. The surrounding meadow was overgrown with wildflowers, their fragrances mixing on the wind, the sun above shining brightly in a blue sky. Daphne stopped to let it warm her, face upturned, eyes closed.
In her hand she still held the wicked man’s dagger. Blood dripped from it onto the flowers.
The rising patter of hoofbeats echoed through the meadow, and Daphne opened her eyes to see a rider approaching. Momentarily she squeezed the knife, preparing for another fight, but no, this was not one of the kidnappers. His polished steel plate reflected the sun like a mirror, his scarlet cape whipping in the breeze. Her gallant knight, right on time. Dismounting before her, he fell to one knee, head bowed.
“Lady Daphne, I presume? I am Sir Constable, and I’m here to…to…” rising out of his bow, Sir Constable got his first good look at Daphne. He frowned. “Is that blood?”
Daphne looked down, inspecting herself. “Why, yes, yes it is.”
“You’re covered with it!” A horrified Sir Constable sprang to her aid, but Princess Daphne waved him away and reached for his horse’s reins. Climbing into the saddle, she scooched forward and patted the seat behind her.
“Fear not, good sir knight. The dress was already ruined.”
III. ~ Henchman ~
Panic. Clem tried to push it down, gripping his spear between ten white knuckles, but the fear would not be ignored. After each breath it rose again, like the contents of an upset stomach. There may have been some actual bile mixed in as well, but Clem’s desperate mind had bigger things to focus on than a sore throat.
Sir Constable was coming.
“He’s just one knight,” the captain of the guard had told them when they’d first gotten word, “Stick together and we’ll be fine.” But the longer they waited, the less Clem believed him. The screams didn’t help. From the lower levels of the tower came cries and shouts of anguish the likes of which Clem had never heard before, and darkly he wondered what he would sound like, when it finally came his turn.
The problem was, contrary to his captain’s opinion, Sir Constable wasn’t just a knight; he was a legend, the hero of a thousand quests (most of them successful!), and now he was after Clem’s employer, the fell wizard Vorlock. The confrontation had come about in the usual manner, with Vorlock minding his own business—raising the dead, cursing princesses, that sort of thing. Then Sir Constable had ridden into town and, out of nowhere, accused Vorlock of over a dozen counts of foul villainy. It had all been true, but on principle Vorlock had challenged Constable to a duel anyway, and now the knight was here to make good. Of course, being the character he was, Vorlock had beefed up security beforehand, but by the sounds of it, the new recruits weren’t offering Constable much in the way of resistance.
Enter Clem. His unit had been stationed at the top of the tower, just outside the door to Vorlock’s personal chamber, but such positioning of minor distinction was cold comfort in the face of what would surely be a swift and violent death. There were only five of them left, all men like Clem who’d taken the job, not out of some misplaced loyalty to Vorlock or devotion to his dark arts, but because it was steady work that put food on the table. The benefits weren’t bad either, but in hindsight Clem was now kicking himself. He was an honest sort, a man who took pride in his job, but was dying for Vorlock, for a paycheck, really worth it?
Absently, Clem fantasized of dropping his spear and making a run for it. If he was quick about it, his compatriots might not realize what he was doing until he was out of reach, and they couldn’t well leave their posts to chase after him, could they, not with Sir Constable incoming.
Too late. Without warning, the door at the end of the hallway burst open, and in rushed the heroic figure of Sir Constable. Heroic and frightening. The knight was tall and robust, and covered in blood from the tip of his sword to his boots, literal chunks of viscera clinging to his already crimson cape. He’d been through it, clearly, but the look in Constable’s eye was nothing short of determined. Spotting Clem’s unit, he brought his sword to the ready.
“Stand aside, servants of Vorlock, or I shall be forced to dispatch you!”
Clem must have blacked out a moment, for the next thing he knew, Constable and his unit were already mixing it up. It wasn’t a long contest, or much of one at all, to be frank. In the space of a dozen breaths, his compatriots lay dead or incapacitated upon the floor, and only Clem now stood in Sir Constable’s way.
“Stand aside,” the knight repeated, and this time a twinge of weariness crept into his voice. Clem couldn’t help but admire Sir Constable’s resolve, as if he needed one more reason not to fight him. The spear almost slipped from his grasp right then.
But no. Clem couldn’t just run away. He couldn’t stand aside. There was dignity in honest work. There was honor in keeping one’s word. Clem had signed up to defend the tower of the fell wizard Vorlock, and that’s what he would do, dammit! With a most manly scream, he leveled his spear at Sir Constable and charged.
Sir Constable sighed, parried Clem’s spear thrust, then grabbed him by the collar and sent him headfirst into the stone wall.
When Clem’s eyes finally uncrossed, it was to the sight of Constable standing over him, sword raised for the killing blow. At least I didn’t dishonor myself, Clem thought by way of consolation. I’ll forever be part of Sir Constable’s legend now.
“At last, we meet!”
Both Sir Constable and Clem turned to find the door to Vorlock’s chamber had opened. Standing in the threshold, backlit by candlelight, was the Fell One himself.
“Come, fool knight,” Vorlock said with a menacing draw. His staff glowed with ruby runes, and his eyes danced with lightning. “Best me if you can, or else face your doom!”
“Not my doom, but yours!” replied Sir Constable, and without further ado he charged off down the hall, sword swinging. Vorlock retreated back into his chamber and Constable followed. The door swung shut behind them, muffling the sounds of epic battle.
Clem waited until his ears stopped ringing, then stood and dusted himself off. He thought about poking his head into the chamber, to see how the fight progressed, but decided against it. Those two had their own thing going on. He would only be getting in the way.
Besides, Clem knew how these things usually went, and odds to evens, Vorlock was a goner. If Clem started his search right away, maybe this time he could find work that wasn’t one hundred percent hazard pay.
IV. ~ Maiden ~
No matter how Annabelle squirmed, the bonds held. It wouldn’t do for her to run off before the proper moment. That would ruin the plan.
It was a good plan, everyone agreed. Sir Constable dismissed it as a lucky bit of inspiration, but then, he was the hero for a reason. Humble in word, daring in deed, and there was nothing more daring than slaying a dragon. Everyone agreed on that as well.
The dragon in question lived at the top of Mount Saint Henderton, and it had plagued the village of Hendertonshire for longer than anyone could remember. Today, however, it would finally meet its end. That’s how good Sir Constable’s plan was. The whole village loved it.
Except for Annabelle. She’d been chosen as the bait and was none too happy about it, not that she’d not been given much choice. The village had needed a fair young maiden to lure the dragon out of its lair and Annabelle fit the bill. She’d called for a vote in protest, but even her parents had voted against her. It was an honor to be chosen, they’d said, and yet Annabelle hadn’t seen anyone else volunteering.
Annabelle also wasn’t a huge fan of all this talk about her “maidenhood.” Her virginity was nobody’s business, but if she’d known where chastity would get her, she’d have gone for that roll in the hay with Roger the carpenter’s son while she had the chance.
Too late, thought Annabelle, tied to a post halfway up Mount Saint Henderton, her bodice torn slightly so as to further attract the dragon’s attention. As if dragons cared about cleavage; it wanted to eat her, not deflower her, but Sir Constable wasn’t taking chances. He’d found himself a good boulder to hide behind, and now lay in wait.
The dragon made its lair in a cave on the mountainside. No light penetrated the threshold, its depths were blacker than moonless night, and from it echoed the rhythmic, basso rumble of something very large fast asleep.
From his hiding place the brave sir knight caught Annabelle’s attention.
“Wake it up,” he mouthed, jabbing a finger at the cave. “Scream or something.”
Annabelle flatly ignored him. She wasn’t in the most helpful mood.
It turned out to be a moot point. That very moment the wind shifted, a southernly gale coming up from behind Annabelle before whistling across the cave’s mouth. The rumbling stopped.
Despite growing up in Hendertonshire, Annabelle had never seen the dragon—most who did only saw it the once, before dying horribly—but the stories she’d heard did not do it justice. From the darkness it slithered, as big as a barn, scales ruby red and wings like a ship’s sails unfurling. It spotted Annabelle at once, and in its coal black eyes she saw her own death reflected.
The dragon lumbered over, stopping just short of Annabelle and studying her with a wary eye and a sniff. Far from enraged or ravenous, it seemed somewhat nonplussed. Perhaps it had expected her to scream, or cry, or act more like a typical maiden. Likewise, Annabelle had expected it to act more like a typical dragon. They’d thrown each other off.
Regardless, Sir Constable chose that moment to make his move, darting out from his boulder and stabbing his sword into the dragon’s side.
The dragon’s roar sent tremors through the mountain, but it was far from slain. Wheeling about, it unleashed a torrent of fire, which Sir Constable caught on his shield; what he did not catch was the dragon’s tail as it swept around behind the knight and batted him clean off his feet. He would have been swept clear down the mountainside, had Annabelle not been in his way.
“Oh f—” was all Annabelle could say before two hundred pounds of armored knight careened into her, shattering the post to which she was hitched and sending them both ass over tea kettle.
When Annabelle came to, she was lying upon the ground. The post had come with her, the bonds holding admirably, and to make matters worse, something dreadfully sharp now jabbed into her hip each time she shifted. Lying as still as possible, she indulged a chorus of new aches with a hearty groan and silently cursed Hendertonshire.
Sir Constable was already back to battling the dragon, though he was not necessarily faring any better, for he now had only his shield to fend off the beast’s assault. He was also shouting for some reason. Annabelle groaned again in response.
“The sword!” Constable screamed. “It’s pinned under you!”
Ah, so that’s what kept poking her. Annabelle shifted her weight off the blade and, carefully, stroke by stroke, used its keen edge to sever her bonds. Free of the post, she stood, sword in hand.
“Kill it!” Sir Constable shouted amidst assaults by tooth, claw, and flame. “Now, while its back is turned! Stab it in the heart!”
Annabelle started forward, sword raised. Then she stopped.
“What are you waiting for?” called Sir Constable, his voice rising hysterically. The hem of his scarlet cape was fully aflame. “Don’t you want to save your village?”
Do I? Annabelle thought. Of all involved, the dragon was the only one who had not deliberately placed her in harm’s way. To Sir Constable and the good folk of Hendertonshire she’d been naught but fodder.
Well here she was, returning the favor.
Annabelle dropped the sword, spun on a heel, and descended Mount Saint Henderton without a backward glance.
Hendertonshire’s townsfolk were gathered at the mountain’s base, eagerly awaiting Sir Constable’s triumphant return. The sight of Annabelle alone was a shock then, but she ignored their shouted questions, only stopping long enough to grab Roger by the hand before heading for the nearest hay barn. In an hour she would leave Hendertonshire behind, but she had something to take care of first.
Annabelle would be no one’s maiden, not anymore.
V. ~ Rival ~
The day was bright with promise and birdsong, the lake as smooth as glass. Mist hung over the water’s surface like a cold breath, dissipating to nothing under the morning sunlight.
A good day for a quest. The only thing missing was the ferryman.
“Late again,” Sir Regent said bitterly to himself, before climbing back into the saddle. The ferryman shall be thine guide to the inverted tower, or so the legend went. There was no point hanging around with him gone. Those sorts never left their posts, not unless their quest was complete.
This was all that damn Sir Constable’s fault.
If Sir Regent could give his younger self one bit of advice, it would be early to bed, earlier to rise. Starting out, he’d had no idea just how early one had to get moving to succeed at this hero business, nor how stiff the competition would be. He’d hoped to get the jump on his rival this time, but it seemed Sir Constable, or some other lucky knight, had beaten him to the punch once more. He was probably already back in the village, using the Amulet of Margaroth to score free drinks while regaling fair maidens with the morning’s heroisms.
No matter. Let Sir Constable waste the day boozing and cavorting; Sir Regent would get a head start on the next adventure. He’d heard only last night of a princess being held for ransom by bandits in a forest not far from here…
The tower was easy enough to find, for it stood up straight out of the ground in the conventional manner, but alas. The Princess Daphne was already gone, rescued by Sir Constable, no doubt. He’d done a real number on the bandits, too. Gory stuff, merciless.
Just to be sure, Sir Regent ascended the tower, holding his breath as he tip-toed around the scattered chunks of viscera which had been strewn upon both floor and walls like a macabre bread crumb trail. High and low he looked, but besides more dead bandits and a cold baked potato, his search yielded naught but regret.
Sir Regent didn’t even care about the fell wizard Vorlock; he was just passing through. Hard to miss a smoldering heap where a castle used to be, though. Sir Constable could always be known by the destruction he left in his wake, but apparently this one had been quite the slobber knocker. This, according to a chatty kebob merchant who said the fighting had lasted so long, the whole village had camped out to watch. Then, when Sir Constable finally emerged victorious, they’d held a festival in his honor, right there in the shadow of Vorlock’s burning keep. Pig chasing, pie eating, sword swallowing, turkey legs by the dozen and mead by the barrel—it had been a whole thing.
“You just missed it,” the kebob peddler finished, closing up the tailgate of his cart. “Shame. It’s not every day you get to meet a real hero!”
Welcome to Hendertonshire! the sign read. Population: variable.
“This is it,” Sir Regent said to himself. “If the dragon’s gone, I quit.” No sooner had he heard of the Scourge of Mount Saint Henderton than he’d hit the road, but even as he drove his faithful steed to exhaustion, he could feel his dream slipping away. There was always someone faster, stronger, more on the ball. If he could rescue just one person, save one town, slay one villain, it would all be worth it, but everyone had their limits, and Sir Regent had reached his. At the top of Mount Saint Henderton he would learn, once and for all, if he was meant to be a hero.
“Expect the unexpected” they always told young knights, so finding the town deserted did not surprise Sir Regent overmuch. It was spooky though, every home standing empty. Had they all been eaten already? This dragon problem was even worse than the stories warned.
“Hello?” Sir Regent called as he rode down Hendertonshire’s one paved road. “Is anyone out there? Does anyone need help?”
“I could use a ride, if you’re offering.”
Wheeling around, Sir Regent spotted a young woman coming up the road behind him. She looked a bit tousled, skirts askew, hay clinging to her amber hair, but otherwise no worse for wear.
“Where is everyone?” asked Sir Regent. “Are you the only one who lives here?”
“I wish,” said the woman, “but no. They’re all up by the mountain.”
“Why would…” Sir Regent began. “Oh no. Don’t tell me.”
“Don’t tell you what? That they’re all watching Sir Constable slay the dragon?”
There it was. The final nail in Sir Regent’s hero coffin. The knight slumped in his saddle, his posture crumbling with his dream.
The young woman gave him a quizzical, but not unconcerned, look. “What’s wrong?”
“Hmm? Oh nothing,” said Sir Regent. “I just really hate that guy.”
“Who, Sir Constable?” she asked. “Me too! I’m sort of hoping the dragon wins.” She laughed brightly, and despite himself Sir Regent joined her, the chuckle building into something that drew tears and stole breath.
“Annabelle,” the young woman said once they’d both settled down again. She offered Sir Regent a smile, and her hand to shake.
“Reggie,” replied the knight. Relieved of his funk, he took real notice of Annabelle for the first time and decided he rather liked that smile. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him so, let alone a beautiful woman.
“So, Annabelle, you were saying something about a ride. Where to?”
Annabelle looked around Hendertonshire with a grimace. “Honestly? Anywhere but here.”
“You don’t say,” said Sir Regent, and held out his hand. “As it happens, I was thinking of heading there myself.”
Annabelle took Sir Regent’s hand with another smile and climbed up behind him into the saddle. “My hero,” she said, squeezing his waist tight. Then together they hit the road, going nowhere in a hurry.
Thomas J. Griffin is a life-long fiction lover and sumo wrestling enthusiast who lives in Nashville, Tennessee and writes out of an attic that could use more natural light. He is the editor of Flash Point SF, and his own stories have appeared in publications such as Daily Science Fiction, 100-Foot Crow, and Myriad Magazine.
A very nice sequence of tales here, each one a decent flash piece on its own. Great melange of courtly whimsey and stoic dismissal. A toast! Now, where did I put that chalice?