Page 59 of The Discount Damsel

Dirk leapt into the air, tucking tail and every extremity up tight against his belly. A wall of orange dust and sand rose in his wake, obscuring the tower.

Ivar the Bane smacked right into the stones.

The tower shook harder than it ever had before, the cockerel weathervane atop the conical roof spinning madly. The roof shed another volley of shingles, but the stones held.

Eyes rolling into the back of his head, the barbarian crashed onto his back like a felled tree, unconscious.

Dirk landed in the sand a few feet away, tested the depth of the Hero’s insentience with a thwack of his tail across the barbarian’s stomach, then quickly lowered his jaws to either side Ivar’s head. With one thought, or a spastic bout of nerves, those fangs could shut.

“Dirk the Dangerous is the victor,” Sir Eustace announced from his desk, “by way of blunt-force incapacitation. Help yourself to the body and all valuables. And you,” he addressed the desert guide lounging in the shade of the desk, “are to depart the vicinity at once. Shoo.”

The guide rose, scanned the tower, and gave the magenta dragon one last long look before starting off into the setting sun.

“And, Dragon,” the ministry official said, wagging his quill at Dirk, “you should get yourself checked out at the nearest dracologist. You’re looking a mite fluish with that coloration, and the Discount Damsel Protocol has no subsections pertaining to a stay-of-Rescue just because the Dragon is feeling a little under the weather. And you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself with your first princess-napping by succumbing to a bacterium instead of a Hero’s sword, would you?”

“And here I thought you were supposed to be a third-party observer,” Dirk snipped. He’d just survived a fight he should’ve lost, and that was stinging enough without being reprimanded by a strange little man in a suit. “Tight-lipped and keeping your advice and comments to yourself.”

Sir Eustace swiveled in his seat to give the dragon the full weight of his stare and the power of the ministry he represented. “Listen here, youngling. Aside from the duties assigned to officials within their specific divisions, it is our prerogative to uphold the sanctity and reputation of the Ministry of Folklore and all its magical citizens, including you. You will not disgrace the Ministry by being anything but your best. So either you go to the dracologist or you eat some chicken noodle soup like the humans do and get your scales back to healthy ruby, or I’m docking you points.”

“Points? Since when were points involved?”

“They are for our in-house records when it’s time to hand out annual awards amongst the magical species.”

“We get awards?” Dirk exclaimed.

“You won’t,” Sir Eustace snapped, “if you continue to half-ass it. The only way you’re allowed to die by bacterium without disgrace is if you suffer wet gangrene from a mortal flesh wound received in battle. This is your only warning, youngling. Now clean this up. I hate it when you lot leave the bodies out to rot within range of my tent.”

Sir Eustace finished his report and packed up his desk with surprising quickness, replacing chronicle, ink, quill, spyglass, and all his other ministry accoutrements in the various drawers. History proved that it was exceptionally rare for a Hero to attack a dragon at night, so he assumed his chances were good that he would be undisturbed for the remainder of the day.

The little man shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie and returned to his tent where he hung up his work clothes and extracted the petite charcoal grill to roast some eggplant for this evening’s baba ghanoush.

From the tower, three humans hung out over their respective balconies and windows.

“You did marvelously, Dirk,” Millie cheered. “Bravo!”

“Is he still breathing?” Sir Roger inquired after the barbarian.

Dirk nudged him in the leg with a claw. Ivar the Bane released a massive snore.

“What do we do with him?” Dirk asked. “I don’t want him waking up and rechallenging me. Can he even do that?” he asked the ministry official.

Sir Eustace transferred his charred eggplant to some tinfoil to wrap up and steam. “Not if he’s dead.”

Dirk swallowed nervously. He knew defeating a Hero could lead to the Hero’s death, but not like this. Not in cold blood. But he’d barely scraped by, and it was only the princess’s quick thinking and the hedge knight’s battle prowess that had gotten him out of this fight alive. The luck dragon was beginning to realize what it truly meant to defend Millie against her rescuers, what the price would be to become the equal of a Great Red.

“Bradley!” He used the last of his energy to fly up the tower and wrangle his bulk upon the balcony. “I need a hug,” he sobbed.

The magic of the amplio rice paper spell would keep Dirk large for some time more, so the apprentice did his best to wrap his arms around the Great Magenta dragon without impaling himself upon the myriad extra horns. Bradley tried not to wince when Dirk rested his heavy chin upon his shoulder. He relished the discomfort, because it meant Dirk hadn’t abandoned him. He’d been so stupid to think he’d been so easily replaced by a Shiny Object in Pink.

“I can’t kill him,” Dirk wept.

The bravado of the dragon who boldly called others “idiot” and “meat sack” was nowhere to be found. His claws bit into the apprentice’s robe as his grip tightened, desperate to anchor himself to something solid. Something true.

“I don’t think I can kill anybody. But he can’t stay here, and I can’t go through that again. What do I do?”

It would be easy for Bradley to tell Dirk to give up his obsession with the Great Reds or to push him into committing the fatal act so he might know the inevitable consequences of his choice, but sorcerer apprentice couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. He’d just watched his friend fight tooth and nail for his dream against impossible odds. Watched it.

He hadn’t uttered a spell, and contrary to what the princess believed, he’d tried. But his tongue, throat, lips—they hadn’t obeyed him. It’s like he’d had a mouthful of peanut butter. Normally a delight, but now, detrimental. Shame filled him; the little dragon couldn’t depend on him anymore.